Magazines have long been fond of asking well-known writers to recommend books appropriate to certain times of year, usually as Christmas gifts or so-called “beach reading.” The results tend to be surprisingly conventional and unrewarding, with pleasing exceptions. Consider this:  “Since I long ago gave up reading for any reason except pleasure, my literary diet does not vary much by the season. If anything, I find I am apt to indulge myself in less trivial fare during holiday months than in the winter -- I have more leisure for savoring and less need to drug myself to sleep with something uncerebral.”   The writer is the much-underrated American poet Phyllis McGinley (1905-78) responding to the “Recommended Summer Reading” feature in the Summer 1962 issue of The American Scholar. Among her co-respondents are other members of the journal’s editorial board, including Alfred Kazin and the historian of the South, C. Vann Woodward (The Strange Carrer of Jim Crow). Sorry to say, most of responses are dull. McGinley distinguishes herself by enthusiasm, good taste and no evidence of showing off.   Like her, I’ve never understood how reading in the summer differs from any other time of the year. The choice of reading matter is an internal affair, not subject to the influence of sunlight, warm temperatures and other external factors. McGinley makes an exception for travel:   “On a motoring trip, for instance, my husband and I always carry along A. E. Housman. You have to be young to enjoy Housman, and young is what one is inclined to feel while driving happily along strange roads. Enclosed, insulated from real life by speed, movement and the abandonment of domestic duties, the adolescent pessimism, the pseudoclassic despair and the impeccable music of that verse seem satisfying as they did when we were college freshmen. It does not do for bedtime reading but it is delightful to chant aloud en route.”   I’m charmed by the scene of a middle-aged American couple, sometime during the Kennedy administration, reciting in tandem one of Housman’s lyrics while touring the country. McGinley recommends other good titles – Kim, Mrs. Gaskell’s Cranford, Austen’s Persuasion, H.D.F. Kitto’s The Greeks, Adam Bede, Trevelyan’s History of England. That final three-volume work is, she writes, “as romantic and satisfactory a book as one could ask. In fact, a vacation is a natural and proper time to renew one’s friendships with early enthusiasms. The wells of joy are apt to be livelier in pleasant weather.”   In his introductory lecture as professor of Latin at University College, London, in 1892, Housman says: “The sum of things to be known is inexhaustible, and however long we read, we shall never come to the end of our story-book.”

Left in a hefty anthology titled The Faber Book of War Poetry (ed. Kenneth Baker, 1996) was a postcard from O’Gara & Wilson, Ltd. Booksellers in Chicago. More than forty years ago I visited that shop near the University of Chicago and purchased a partial set of Conrad for a decent price. They bundled the books and I carried them back to Ohio on the train. The card suggests a seriousness of purpose often missing from bookstores today:   “Chicago’s Oldest Bookstore Established 1882 200,000 Titles in Stock Used Books Bought & Sold Small Collections or Complete Libraries No Quantity Too Large – House Calls Made”   Smaller copy says O’Gara & Wilson carries books “in almost all fields, but we are especially interested in American history, art, Balkan and Central European history, English and American literature, Greek and Latin classics, medieval history and literature, military history, philosophy, religion & theology.” In other words, a serious bookstore for serious readers. This is not Harlequin Romance country.   Joseph Epstein’s great friend, the late sociologist Edward Shils, who taught at the University of Chicago, published “The Bookshop in America” in the winter 1963 issue of Daedalus. In it, Shils calls bookshops “an almost indispensable part of life. Like libraries, one goes to them for what one knows and wants and to discover books one did not know before.” He continues:   “I have gone to bookshops to buy and browse. I have gone to them to buy books I wanted, and because I just wanted to buy a book, and much of the time just because I wanted to be among books to inhale their presence.”   He speaks for me. I have gone to bookstores I knew from prior sad experience were lousy, just to wander among the shelves, hopelessly hoping for treasure. In such places, I have been tempted to buy books I already owned just to salvage something tangible out of disappointment. Shils formulates a theory of good bookstores contrary to conventional economic sense:    “A bookshop, in order to be good, must have a large stock of books for which there is not likely to be a great demand but for which there will be an occasional demand. This means, unlike the retail trade in groceries, or the practice in industry to produce on order, a bookshop must render its capital inert by putting a lot of it into slow-moving lines.”   Shils is writing, of course, long before the Age of Amazon. I looked online to see if O’Gara & Wilson is still in business. It is, but relocated to Chesterton, Ind., fifty miles southeast of Chicago. I wish I could visit. More power to the new owners Doug and Jill Wilson. Shils writes:     “The wonder is, given the unremunerativeness of the business, that bookshops exist at all. It takes a special kind of person, somewhat daft in a socially useful and quite pleasant way but nonetheless somewhat off his head, to give himself to bookselling. Why should anyone who has or who can obtain $10,000 or $20,000 invest it in a bookshop to sell serious books when, if he were an economically reasonable person, he would do better to open a beauty parlor or a hamburger and barbecue shop, or put his money into the stock market? The bookseller must be one of those odd people who just love the proximity of books.”

One needn’t be a fetishist or even a book collector – reader is close enough -- to prize an “association copy,” a term neatly defined here: “A book that belonged to or was annotated by the author, someone close to the author, a famous or noteworthy person, or someone especially associated with the content of the work.” The full title of the volume in question is The Poetical Works of George Herbert. With Life, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes, by the Rev. George Gilfillan, published by D. Appleton & Co., N.Y., in 1854. The front end paper is signed in black ink: “Helen A. Pinkerton 12-1945.” Poet, scholar, one-time student of Yvor Winters and J.V. Cunningham, Helen gave me the leather-bound volume in 2015 and died two years later.  The only marks Helen left in the book are minute dots and checks beside the titles of eleven poems in the table of contents, including my favorite Herbert poem, “The Flower,” with the beginning of the sixth of its seven stanzas:   “And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write.”   Herbert renders encouragement to late-bloomers and anyone else who has been stalled, tired, sick, preoccupied or otherwise blocked by life. In 2019, just months away from his death by cancer, Clive James was introduced to “The Flower” by a friend, a gift he wrote about in an essay:      “[B]ack there in the middle of the 20th century I somehow missed it, when I was first reading Herbert in the Albatross Book of Living Verse, which we used to call the ‘Book of Living Albatrosses.’ How I ever missed anything in Herbert’s prolific output is a puzzle. He fascinated me from the jump, almost as much as Marvell. I blame Herbert for not calling himself Marvell every time. A poet called Herbert will occasionally be overlooked; call yourself Wonderful and everything will get into the list of contents.”   Herbert was born on this date, April 3, in 1593 and died in 1639 at age thirty-nine.

In 1899, Edwin Arlington Robinson read Thoreau’s Walking, a work based on an 1851 lecture published posthumously in 1862. Robinson was not impressed by his fellow New Englander. He condemned Thoreau’s “glorified world-cowardice” in a letter to his friend Daniel Gregory Mason:  “For God’s sake says the sage, let me get away into the wilderness where I shall not have a single human responsibility or the first symptom of social discipline. Let me be a pickerel or a skunk cabbage or anything that will not have to meet the realities of civilization. There is a wholesomeness about some people that is positively unhealthy, and I find it in this essay.”   Starting as a teenager I idolized Thoreau. I read Walden many times and almost everything else he wrote, including the two oversized volumes of his Journals as published by Dover. I still think he sometimes wrote excellent prose (the poetry is refried Emerson, often unreadable) but his hippie ethos mingled with snobbery cooled my enthusiasm, beginning about fifteen years ago. His temperament was chilly. I suspect Thoreau is best read when we’re young and don’t yet understand our civil obligations. In 1844, when he accidentally started a forest fire and burned some three-hundred acres of woods in Concord, Thoreau expressed no remorse and never apologized to his townsmen. In his Journal in 1850 he wrote about the incident:   “Presently I heard the sound of the distant bell giving the alarm, and I knew that the town was on its way to the scene. Hitherto I had felt like a guilty person — nothing but shame and regret. But now I settled the matter with myself shortly. I said to myself, ‘Who are these men who are said to be the owners of these woods, and how am I related to them? I have set fire to the forest, but I have done no wrong therein, and now it is as if the lightning had done it. These flames are but consuming their natural food.’”   An impressive act of stiff-necked rationalization. “It has never troubled me,” he goes on, “from that day to this more than if the lightning had done it.” Scott Donaldson in Edwin Arlington Robinson: A Poet’s Life (2007) contrasts Thoreau with Robinson:   “Robinson required a commanding and fortified purpose to guide him in the real world. For him, there could be no worthy calling that did not help others. As a poet, he might not serve as overtly as a pastor comforting parishioners or a college professor mentoring students. Nonetheless he wanted desperately to believe that by writing poetry he would do some good in the world. . . .Time and again, as he was shaping his career, Robinson explicitly made the link between a life of poetry and a life of service.”   Trying to be a decent human being is a fulltime occupation that starts with our personal relations – family, friends, neighbors, coworkers. Grandiose schemes of improvement are delusional. In an April, 2, 1897 letter to his correspondent Edith Brower, Robinson writes:   “I am doing what I can for myself and a little for others; and I am very glad to know that I have been to some slight service to them. There are two or three fellows whom I have really helped. I know it; they have told me so; and their actions prove the truth of what they say. And now you—a total stranger—tell me that  I have helped you. What more can I ask?”

Grownups seldom credit children with insight into human psychology, thus treating them as smaller, more annoying versions of themselves. My father had an acquaintance even he knew was a fool. By admitting such knowledge, he was violating adult solidarity. His friend's customary epithet was “That Goofball Herb,” whose reaction to any stimulus, positive or negative, was a juicy, open-mouthed giggle. And yet, somehow, he had even reproduced.  At a picnic, we watched as Herb spent half an hour trying to start a fire in a fire pit. Apparently, he was unfamiliar with kindling. Instead, he was throwing matches at logs and had attracted an appreciative audience. We watched as he opened the trunk of his car, removed a gasoline can, emptied the contents on the logs and threw a match. The ensuing “Whoomp!” knocked him “ass or tea kettle,” the American variation on the more colorful British “arse over tit.” He had singed away the hair on his forearms, his eyebrows and eyelashes, and left his face the color of a pomegranate. When people were certain Herb wasn't dead, everyone laughed, which suggests the enduring appeal of slapstick comedy. Best of all the fire promptly fizzled out, but he was back to work within minutes, bringing to mind Proverbs 26:11: “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.”   Herb was a fool. Most of us recognize at least two species of fool – those like Shakespeare’s who are gifted with wisdom and the homelier sort like Herb who are merely foolish. In his lecture on As You Like It, W.H. Auden writes: “The fool is fearless and untroubled by convention [and good sense]—like a child, he isn’t even aware of convention. He’s not all there, but he is prophetic, because through his craziness he either sees more or dares to say more.” Auden blurs the distinction between the two sorts of fool. Herb, as I recall, never manifested wisdom.    It's April Fools’ Day, a favorite holiday when we were kids. It gave us permission to tell lies and to feel very un-foolish about it. Ambrose Bierce in his Devil’s Dictionary defines an April Fool as “the March fool with another month added to his folly.” In other words, there’s a continuity to foolishness. It doesn’t recede. The condition is chronic and we learn about it as children. Bierce’s definition of fool, one of the longest in his Dictionary, sounds like H.L. Mencken:   “A person who pervades the domain of intellectual speculation and diffuses himself through the channels of moral activity. He is omnific, omniform, omnipercipient, omniscient, omnipotent,” and so on. I prefer Rosiland’s exhortation to Jacques in As You Like It: “I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad.”   [See Auden’s Lectures on Shakespeare (ed. Arthur Kirsch, Princeton University Press, 2000).]