Chapter I

Bibliophilia in Extremis

        "I am obsessed with books," August said.  He kept his knees and feet pressed together as he explored the familiar, smooth top of his rosewood cane.

        Doctor Moran sat in an easy chair in his small, comfortable office.  Several large, over-stuffed pieces of neutral colored furniture took up most of the room's limited space.  South-Western artwork hung on the walls, occupied places of honor upon the desk, and were more numerous in the pair of tall bookcases than books themselves.  Something circular, small and black stood by the office's solitary door and hummed continuously, hiding August's confessions from whomever might be in the Doctor's waiting room.

        "Have you been obsessed with books for a long time?" Doctor Moran asked.  He held a pen loosely, the implement poised above a yellow legal pad balancing on his lap.

        August smiled.  "I have been obsessed with them for as long as I can remember."

        "And how old are you now?"

        "Sixty-seven."

        "So, are you here about your books?"

        "My books?"  August asked.  He shook his head.  "No.  I am not here about my books.  I am here because my children asked me to speak to someone."

        "Why?"

        "They are worried that I am becoming a recluse."

        "Why are they worried about that?"

        August closed his eyes and rubbed them.  "I am a recent widower."  August sighed and opened his eyes.  "With the passing of Elizabeth, my wife, I have withdrawn some."

        "How so?"

        "I have turned off my cable television.  I despise it, and the so called news it brings with it.  I have cancelled all of my newspapers for the simple reason that yellow journalism had more dignity.  I have turned off my telephone because it rang incessantly."

        Doctor Moran paused in his note-taking.  "Those are some extreme steps.  Why have you taken them?"

        "My wife kept me grounded.  Concerned with the present.  She kept me involved with the world.  Without her," August shrugged, "there's no real need to be involved."

        "And what of your children?"

        "They are grown.  They know where I live."  August looked at the doctor.  "They know that they can see me whenever they wish."

        Doctor Moran paused, then said, "You miss your wife."

        "Terribly."

        For a few minutes they sat silently.  Doctor Moran looked at August.  "Do you spend all of your time with your books?"

        "Either with them or hunting for them.  Books," August said softly, "are everything to me."

        "What is it that you love about them?  What is it that makes them so important?"

        August thought for a moment before speaking.

        "What is it that I love about them?  What is it that makes them so important?  They're beautiful.  Perfect."  August looked at the nearest bookcase and pulled a Michael Palmer hardcover off of the shelf.  "This, this is amazing."  He opened the book, caressing the pages.  "This is a device which allows an author to reach out from the past to the future.  This is a device which allows me to examine and experience a world which is not my own.  An author can express fears and hopes, loves and hates, leave them all there for me to find and explore.  Books share ideas, good, bad and indifferent.  To hold a book is to hold its time.

        "Was this book held by the author?  Did the book serve as a gift?  Are there inscriptions, errors, notes, markings?  A bookplate from some great collector and lover of books?  Was there controversy when the book was released?  Why was it released?  If it is a diary published, why was it?  Why did the diarist publish it?  Was it the diarist, or was it someone else?  And if it was someone else, why?  Why show that world, so personal and so deep?  Why is that world so important to reveal?

        "I need those worlds.  I need those books, the beautiful and the miserable.  The Steinbecks and the Hitlers.  All of them are magnificent.  All of them are terrible.  

        "They are dualistic in a way that is invigorating and maddening."

        August sighed and shuddered, sinking back into his chair.

        "I am addicted to them," he continued, his eyes closed.  "I am addicted to them, and I have forsaken many things for them, and will continue to do so."  August opened his eyes and looked at Doctor Moran.  "I have gone hungry for books, Doctor.  I have gone hungry so that money might buy me some great mystery sitting in a box at a yard sale, or crammed into the corner of some antique dealer's shop.

        "Books are my all, and my everything."

        Doctor Moran looked at August.  "You don't speak like that often, do you."

        "No," August agreed.  "I'm usually not this verbose."  He re-shelved the Palmer.  "God help you, as Elizabeth would have said, if you get me talking on the First World War."
        "Well," the doctor said, "you have answered those questions quite succinctly."  He glanced at his notepad, looked up and asked, "Do you do anything other than spend time with your books?"

        "Very little.  I garden."

        "Garden?"

        "Elizabeth loved to garden.  She spent all of her time with her plants and her flowers.  I will not let her gardens go untended."

        Doctor Moran nodded.  He jotted a few more notes upon his pad before looking back up at August.  "Do you think that you should do something different that would ease your children's minds?"

        "No."  August gripped his cane.  "I did this for my children.  People have lived and communicated for centuries without telephones, however.

        "My children have their lives, Doctor.  They have their families.  I am touched that they love me so.  They must understand, though, that this life is my own.  Elizabeth, their mother, is dead.  Solace for me is only found in my books.  Only with my books."

        Doctor Moran put his pen and notepad down on his desk.  He looked at August and twisted his own wedding ring slowly.  After a moment he spoke.  "I know, August, that you're here to appease your children, and I respect that.  I know that you grieve your wife still as well.  That, too, I respect.  I believe that your children are correct.  You are becoming a recluse.  Most people would say that becoming a recluse is unhealthy, but I disagree.

        "You have your books.  You are obviously passionate about them, and that, too, I respect.  I am concerned, as a psychologist that if you spend too much time isolated with your books and your grief that you may deteriorate not only mentally, but physically as well.  Do you have friends, people other than your children that you speak with on a regular basis?"

        "A few."

        "Other bibliophiles?"

        August smiled.  "Of course."

         "Of course."  Doctor Moran smiled as well.  "Perhaps, if you think it is all right, you and I could talk now and again.  I think that speaking outside of your world of books would help you not turn into a complete hermit.  I also think that such an arrangement would go a long way to ease the concerns and fears of your children."

        August caressed his cane.  He let out a sigh, and nodded.  "I believe that you are correct, Doctor.  The course you suggest is sound."

        "I am happy that you think so, August.  Truly, I am."  Doctor Moran picked up his pen and pad.  "Do you think that you could come back in a month?"

        "Yes.  There are no book fairs next month, so any time should be open for me."

        "Well," the doctor said, "I have no idea of what my schedule is like," he smiled, "but that is why I have Janice.  If you will see her when you leave, and tell her that I've asked for an appointment in one month, I am certain that she will be able to accommodate us both."  Doctor Moran stood up.

        August pushed himself to his feet and winced at the pain in his knee as he set his cane.

        "Are you all right?"

        August nodded, catching his breath.  "I have some very fine, Soviet made, Vietnamese imported steel in my leg, centered around my knee."  August grinned.

        Doctor Moran frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that."
        "Don't be," August said.  "It gives me a greater appreciation for others who have experienced far worse."

        Doctor Moran nodded and extended his hand.

        August shook it.

        "It has been a sincere pleasure, August," the doctor said.  He opened the door.  "Thank you very much for coming in to see me.  I'm looking forward to our next visit, and on hearing more about you, and your books, of course."

        "Of course," August smiled.  "Thank you, Doctor.  It will be interesting."

        Gritting his teeth against the sudden sharpness of the old wound, August walked towards the receptionist to make his next appointment, and to ease the worries and fears of his children.