The Portuguese s(h)elf

It feels funny.

I came into the library to do research on Basque Nationalism. As Portugal and Spain are neighbours, so are their book collections in the library. There it was: Portugal, a big set of shelves filled with books about it.

I looked at the books for a while. They are all old, nothing new has entered the dusty metalic shelves for a while, I presume. The spines are embelished with intricate patterns, decorative forms, some with touches of gold, some with fancy letters, floral printed titles. Faded aristocracy.

They are all big, strong, beautiful books, or once were, at least. They are all dusty, falling apart, their pages are yellow, some brown. There is an ambiance of decay about the shelves, a medieval air. They are out of place, those books should be in an old castle, in a convent. Not in the SFU library. They are all classics, basic important texts. And yet, they all look like rarities.

I feel funny. Like I miss that country far a way because of the books. Like the books were the fellow countrymen that I never found, like we have some common source, purpose. We all come from dusty Portuguese castles, pherhaps. But I also feel disgusted, ashamed of having something to do with these books, all rusty without any metal. Books that seemed to have neglected themselves, unimportant, uninteresting, lackign ambition. Books that rely on their embelished spines and do not even make an effort in their pages.

I pity and admire the books.