POST SCRIPT: Czeslaw Milosz/Signed Books

In remembering Milosz, among favorite Polish writers in a previous blog, I neglected to include the 1996 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Wislawa Szymborska. Yet another Eastern European writer with the burden of history in her soul, and the precise words to make it felt with grace and irony. I’m reminded of the opening to her poem, “ ‘Hatred’: See how efficient it still is,/how it keeps itself in shape--/our century’s hatred./How easily it vaults the tallest obstacles./How rapidly it pounces, tracks us down.” (from: VIEW WITH A GRAIN OF SAND, Selected Poems, 1995)

In discussing Czeslaw Milosz, I wanted to add that I was in San Diego earlier this year, visiting my son. One afternoon I spent a couple of hours haunting used bookstores, looking for anything that happened to catch my attention. What always catches my attention is a shelf or case of first and signed editions.

I’m an avid reader and buyer of new and used books, but not much of a borrower, though I enjoy reading newspapers and magazines in libraries-and checking whatever used, discarded books might be for sale.

From the very beginning books were something I wanted to own,to become part of my life. I’m not very good at lending them. Lend a book-and lose both book and friend, has been my experience, far too often.

Through the years I’ve amassed a considerable number of books. A personal library, in fact, of more books than this coop and my living room can hold. Also, without realizing it, I slowly developed into a `collector.’ First a collector of off-beat books and authors. Books no longer in print. Then a collector of first editions and signed books.

It was never a `money’ thing. An investment. Though I certainly became aware in time that some signed books and first editions can become quite valuable. Yet there is something beyond the monetary value of a signed book. Difficult to explain.

I looked through a number of the first editions and signed books in that used bookstore in San Diego last January, but the only book that caught my eye was a trade paperback with a red spine: “CZELAW MILOSZ Selected Poems”. There was a tiny white sticker-tab at the base of the spine with a handwritten word: ‘Signed’.

Only book lovers and collectors would understand how my heart jumped at the sight of the word ‘signed.’ I set my fingers on the top of the narrow volume, slowly pulling it from the shelf, and my mind racing: ’a signed Milosz! I have nothing signed by him. I never expected to find anything signed by him. Anywhere. Then again, he once lived, taught, wrote in California. He’s still alive…in Poland, in his 90’s. This is probably $75. No, a $100. Probably more. I can’t do a $100. I can’t do $75. Not for one book. But, this is Milosz! A favorite! A Nobel Prize winner!’ And on and on till I held the book in my hand. Studied the cover. And opened it.

On the upper right hand corner, in pencil, was written: ‘OP (out of print). Signed. $25’

Late, last Saturday night, having read of Milosz’s death on the internet earlier in the day, I looked for the red spine and pulled the book I bought in San Diego from my poetry shelf..

I opened it to the title page, and there, in dark blue ink from an old fountain pen,
was the poet, his history, his whole life, all the poems within him, caught in his simple but bold signature…written with what must have been a tired old hand that had touched so much of the world…and here it was now, beyond death, in a small house, on a dark road, in Ellison Bay, Wisconsin…having traveled great distances, at rest in my hands, under the light of a small lamp beside my chair.

I began reading him…he began reading to me.

Milosz was in the room.