Collecting Butterflies

Nabokov's Speak, Memory is a curious book.  It is, in a sense, an autobiography, and I really am not a big fan of autobiographies.  It is also, in a sense, a collection of short stories originally published in magazines about the author's life, and I have mixed feelings about short stories in magazines, especially autobiographical ones.  The book has no plot whatsoever.  The author does not discuss anything that is of particular interest--Nabokov is famous because he is a great novelist, but nothing in this book discusses the writing of novels or anyhting close to that. 

Yet, I really enjoyed the book.  It is amazingly well-written, and so the prose style alone makes it worth reading.  Each chapter (and originally each magazine piece) starts off with some rumination about an event in Nabokov's life and then rambles all over the place--it reads like the way memory works--first you think of one thing which reminds you of something else, which leads to something else entirely.  So, rather than being a conventional autobiography ("I was born and then later I turned 1 and a year later turned 2 and then surprisingly one year later I had my 3rd birthday, and then..."), it wanders all over.  And it was fun to read. 

It makes one think about memory, naturally enough.  But the thing which rally made me puzzle was the chapter in which he discussed his butterfly collection.  Nabokov loved collecting butterflies.  His whole life he tracked them down to capture them. I think  I read more about butterflies in this book than I have read about them in all the other books I have read combined.  I don't really care all that much about butterflies.  There is allegedly a fantastic butterfly zoo very close to where I live, and I have never once been tempted to go see the butterflies.  Yet, I found this chapter utterly riveting.  The butterfly part wasn't that interesting, but the discussion of collecting was amazing.

You see, I don't collect anyhting.  There are things I own and things I like to get, but I just don't have the collector's impulse.  For example, I really like getting Raiders paraphernalia, but I never hunt it out, scouring through stores to find rare items.  I never buy anything just to add to my collection.  I also like books, and I buy lots of books, but again, I don't have that collector's impulse to find a rare copy of a book.  If I want a book, I look on-line and find the cheapest copy and buy it.  Yesterday, I asked the students in my tutorial (in which I assigned the book for this week--the students liked the book too, by the way) about this collecting thing.  They collect things, and they described the joy of discovery with the same reverential tones that Nabokov discusses finding a new butterfly.  I asked why they just don't buy the things for their collection online, and they scoffed at the idea--that, it seems, would destroy the whole joy of the quest. I was told in no uncertain terms, that finding a rare Harry Potter edition in the dusty corner of a used bookstore is fun; buying the same book online is boring.

My lack of collecting has bugged me for years.  Every now and then, I  think that I should start a collection of something.  But every time I decide I should do this and try to think of what to collect, I can't think of anything I would get excited about going to a giant flea market to find.  So, I am left perpetually thinking I am missing out on some pleasure that  normal people in the world enjoy.

At least that I what I thought until it suddenly hit me this morning.  I do collect something.  I collect books I have read.  It isn't the physical book collecting that makes me happy, it is the fact that I have read yet another book.  I get happy about reading a particular book even when the particular book isn't all that good.  I am always happy when I read the last page of a book.  When I think about the joy of reading a book, I realize that it sounds just like Nabokov discussing butterflies.  He wants to find another butterfly not because it is a particularly beautiful butterfly, but just because he hasn't found it yet.  That's what I feel about reading a not particularly amazing book--I am still glad to be able to put the book in my metal register of books I have read.  Suddenly I feel a lot better--I have a collection!  And just like collecting another butterfly or stamp or egg-shaped rock makes collectors of such things happy, reading another book makes me happy.  And, best of all--my collection doesn't take up space in the house.