Littera means letter in Latin. Its plural, litterature, means literature. Well-read people were once said to be, lettered. Using, lettered, this way is now considered archaic, though it’s still a good word to describe those whose love of literature has become part of their personality.
Lettered implies expertise. Expertise, even if slight, does usually follow the pursuit of knowledge. I’m using, lettered, differently. I’m using, lettered, to describe those who read because they enjoy the artful use of words.
The matter of letters matters to them.
I’ve lately been reading the novels of Thomas Hardy.
I’ve several on my bookshelves. They’ve accumulated from times and places I no longer remember. A few days ago I picked out The Mayor of Casterbridge. It’s a small copy, 4 ½” x 7”, bound in black simulated-leather, with a gold-stamped logo of Modern Library on the cover. The publishing date, 1917
I don’t know how this book came to be on my shelves. An inscription in blue fountain-pen cursive, neatly written-in on the interleaf claimed the book: Beatrice McGarvey, 512 Bloomington, Iowa City, Iowa. Phone B. 459.
The inscription charmed me. Who was this lady?
As read the book I wondered about Miss Beatrice McGarvey.
Iowa City is home to the University of Iowa. Was Beatrice a student reading Hardy as part of a collage course, or was she
a lover of literature reading for her own pleasure?
I knew she read thoroughly because of her many thoughtful marginal bracketing’s of certain lines and paragraphs. Did she enjoy the story as much as I did?
I sometimes imagined we were reading The Mayor of Casterbridge at the same time.
It was a silly imagining, but pleasant.
I went to Google Earth to see what I could find about 512 Bloomington, Iowa City, Iowa.
The address was now occupied by a modern building, labeled, Surgical Center, no doubt part of nearby Mercy Hospital. On either side of the Surgical Center were houses that looked to have been built in the early twentieth century. Beatrice’s demolished house must have been much like these houses.
The neighborhood reminded me of another collage town, Ames, Iowa, open and comfortable, filled with many young ladies like Beatrice striving to become, lettered.
I think Beatrice and I would have been friends.
I would have been careful to address her as Miss McGarvey. She, feigning annoyance, would say, “Oh, we know each other too well for such formality, please call me Beatrice”.
Silly, but pleasant.
How did I come to have Beatrice’s book?
I have a notion. My wife, Joyce, now gone to Heaven, spoke often of an elderly friend introduced to her by her brother, Harry. His name was Tom Baronsfeld. I may have the spelling wrong. It sounded something like that.
Mr. Baronsfeld was not a wealthy man, but he was
a learned man - with an expansive generous nature.
Tom took Harry under his wing. Harry did the same for Joyce. Tom introduced them both to the mind-expanding satisfaction of serious literature.
Joyce’s family lived as poor as church-mice in a stark government project on the near-west side of Cleveland, Ohio. Kids from the “Projects” didn’t have much opportunity for cultural enrichment. Most of them didn’t care.
Harry did care. So did Joyce.
I think Tom Baronsfeld saw this yearning in Harry and Joyce and thought he could help.
He shared his appreciation of finer things. He invited them to his house, he loaned them books, he did what he could to encouraged their yearning to learn.
I wish I’d asked Joyce more questions about those years.
I wondered what Joyce’s sister, Linda, remembered.
I asked. She couldn’t recall much, she wasn’t more than five at the time. What she did remember added luster to the halo I’m sure Tom Baronsfeld deserved.
Linda told me about an Easter morning when Tom came to their tiny apartment and covered the kitchen table with candies. This was something like a miracle for six little poor-girls from the Projects.
She thought she remembered similar generosity on other holidays. Linda also remembered Tom bringing his old furniture to her mom when he bought new furniture.
Linda couldn’t think of anything else though she thought there were many more kindnesses besides Tom’s mentoring of Harry and Joyce.
Joyce eventually wrote six books of poetry. Harry became a Psychologist, Teacher, and Attorney.
Tom Baronsfeld surely must be pleased.
I think my copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge came from Mr. Baronsfeld’s house. How it came to him from Iowa City I’ll never know.
Love of books link Beatrice McGarvey, Joyce, Harry, myself, and many others.
When I speak of books, I mean serious books, classical writings that transcend the time and place of their writing. It takes time for any book to prove classic. A new book may be excellent, only generations of readers can prove it excellent.
Thomas Hardy’s novels are as compelling now as they were in milieu of the nineteenth century in which he wrote them. He had his carping critics, then. Every author does in any time and place. Thousands of appreciative readers have since proved those critics wrong and Hardy’s novels classic.
The same can be said of great writers throughout history.
I’m suspicious of new books. They often seem shallow and too little conscious of worlds outside their own. They seem parochial and too much concerned with being trendy, hip, and fashionable. Unlike classical works, they seem prisoners of here-and-now. Nonetheless, some new books will later become classics – though never many.
I treasure the classics, but I’m open to any new writings that are honest, interesting and artful. Reading to be informed is good. Reading for pleasure is better. The people I’m calling, lettered, are appreciatively alert to the play of words; style, rhythm, clarity.
Mutual interest in a finely turned sentence connects the lettered to the lettered.
They are a community. Even when apart in time and space they share delight in the skillful use of letters to paint pictures. it’s as important to them as the stories told by
the letters.
They would all recognize my meaning – a matter
of letters.
