The Pope's Bookbinder

by David Mason

  From the manuscripts previously known, only possible to own for the extremely wealthy or the church, we suddenly had something that eventually gave even the most humble man access to the riches of our heritage. With one book, democracy was also born, even if it took a few more centuries to flourish. The world was forever changed, and I think of that when I see the indifference, even contempt, demonstrated by so many for books these days. And I realize I have worshipped a worthy God all these years, and I am exalted.

  So, I’m not really depressed by all of this so-called progress, which seems to render me not just obsolete but irrelevant. I will never be irrelevant because I have devoted my life to passing on the past, so that the future can know what we thought and believed and what we dreamed about. Nothing but a book can allow us to enter the most intimate dreams of another human. You can, through a book, explore the world with Herodotus; conquer the world with Alexander and argue with Plato; suffer the hell of unrequited love with Catullus and two thousand years later with Stendhal; discover God with Augustine and measure human destiny with Darwin and Einstein.

  And with the countless imaginative writers literature has produced everywhere, we can measure our lives and our dreams and our lapses against others who have shared our lot.

  I’ve always loved the aphorism, “The storyteller tells lies to show us the truth.” Which always reminds me of my early days, when I despised history but devoured historical fiction, completely unaware that it was the history presented in that fascinating guise which really consumed my imagination.

  So we come full circle.

  The naïve ignorant kid devouring books, completely unaware of what it was really providing him. No different in the end from every other young person who ever wondered why we exist and what is our destiny.

  And now, after almost seventy years, it continues. Now an old man, I still take books home every day with exactly the same pleasure and anticipation that I did as a six-year-old, on those long-ago Saturday morning trips with my sister to the library.

  And now, let me reveal a final truth….

  I don’t really think of myself as an old man.

  My body is indeed crumbling, my age unavoidably bringing me to the edge of the abyss, but I still retain the same two gifts which set my life on its course and continue to fuel everything I do: curiosity and enthusiasm. And they are as strong and as compelling now as they ever were. I know now that they will only die with me.

  So, I must still worship the book, which gave me almost everything I have most treasured.

  And as I think of all the books I haven’t read, I see that they are like all my sins of omission—the deeds I was too cowardly or too cautious to attempt; or the women I was too timid to pursue. I deeply regret the books I haven’t yet read, the dialogues I haven’t

  yet engaged in, the dreams of those fellow dreamers I haven’t yet shared. And it is only those unread books that make me a bit sad about the lack of time left. And every day another obsessed dreamer finishes yet another book that I know I will want to read.

  But there is still some time left.

  And while it is nearing the end for me, I also know this: that somewhere, some shy, timid six-year-old kid is going to ask his older sister, “Will you take me to the library today?” And she will say yes and take his hand, and the wondrous dialogue will go on.

  Acknowledgments

  The old “without whom it wouldn’t be possible” phrase certainly applies here. There are two people whose help made this book possible; without them it wouldn’t exist.

  The first is my editor, John Metcalf, who initiated this and then guided me through the morass of accumulated material, which was approaching the length of War and Peace before he applied the editorial skills for which he is justly famous in Canada. He was very kind and gentle as he broke my heart countless times with his ruthless hacking and slashing. He demonstrated not just his editorial skills, but the tact of a psychologist, a priest, a teacher and, not least, a diplomat.

  That the result is an actual book that can actually be read surprises the writer more than it might the reader. It helped too, that John is a life-long collector and understands certain things.

  I owe John a great debt for his gentle but ruthless guidance in making a book of my endless meanderings and ramblings, and I thank him deeply and sincerely for his efforts, and for teaching me so much while he did it.

  The second person is the unsung hero, my assistant Norm Stringer. I can’t type and my handwriting is so atrocious that even I have trouble deciphering it myself ten minutes after I have written something. For some unfathomable reason Norm can read my scrawls and has deciphered and typed countless versions and revisions with enormous patience and with his usual good humour and wise-cracks. He also provided innumerable useful suggestions throughout. I owe him a lot too and I thank him sincerely.

  And I must gratefully thank my publisher Dan Wells, for his enthusiasm and for his persistence. But mostly I admire him for his stubborn courage in attempting to offer the world yet another obscure book it probably doesn’t want, just because he believes they should want it. Another visionary, of which we have all too few in this country. We need more such people. Thank you, Dan.

  And I wish to acknowledge my fellow booksellers as well, both new and antiquarian, who through forty-five years have fed my imagination and added to my education, and been generous colleagues, and in many cases my closest friends. And who, not least, provided me with the opportunity to replace my stock through the bookman’s favourite sport, scouting their stores. It has been a great privilege to share my vocation with so many of them. I consider it a wonderful gift to have been able to spend so much of my life amongst such a bunch of eccentric individualists, people who have lived their lives as they should have, following their own paths, in spite of the world.

  I thank them all, even my enemies.

  I must also thank John Elmslie, Reg Innell, and Don McLeod for the kind use of their photographs.

  I must also acknowledge Tara Murphy, Chris Andrechek, and Kate Hargreaves, the production team at Biblioasis for their hard work and their impeccable sense of style – they have given me a beautiful book and I thank them.

  And finally, I must acknowledge Ginger and her crew, especially the lovely Miss Mandy, at my local, the Bar Wellington, for giving me my private table, supplying me my own special lamp for the dark winter nights, and for keeping my imagination lubricated throughout countless revisions of the text.