Web Exclusives:
Under the Ivy
a column by Jane Martin paw@princeton.edu
September
10, 2003:
Weighed
Down by the Past
Looking at the words
from decades ago
Bound Volume.
For me those words resonate with weight and mystery and importance.
They're always intoned in a librarian's voice, perhaps Katharine
Hepburn in Desk Set or my mother or any of the number of other librarians
who had a hand in raising me. "That would be in the Bound Volumes,"
I can hear the voice say. Bound Volumes are magical because they
take something lightweight, say a magazine, and wrap enough of them
together in the trappings of prestige leather! that
throwaway bathroom reading becomes a reference work worthy of a
financier's library. Suddenly an article on snowboarding or eating
pizza in the dorms is quantified and meaningful: Volume LVXXI, No.
8., p. 43.
Bound Volumes mean so much to me because my entire professional
life is contained in them. I have two sets that hold much of my
written work at Princeton. Of course there are the PAW volumes from
2000-02. They're just the right size to fit on a tall bookshelf,
the gold stamping on black (THE PRINCETON ALUMNI WEEKLY, VOL. C)
endowing their neighbors on the shelf with impressive significance.
The other is the collection that set me on the path to Bound Volume-hood
in the first place. This collection does nothing for the prestige
of my library, because the books are too damn big for any shelf.
Yes, as any former Prince editor recognizes immediately, I'm talking
about the bound volumes of the Prince. Measuring 11 by 17 by some
2 or 3 inches high and weighing five pounds apiece, they're a burden
that stays with you all your life. You can't throw them away
they're Bound Volumes, for heaven's sake so you hide them
in your parents' basement until the folks retire and tackle that
empty-nester housecleaning every aging editor dreads. You can only
hope that by that time you have a basement of your own big enough
to carry the weight of the Prince Bound Volumes.
In all the years the Prince volumes have dragged behind me like
a convict's ball and chain, I've looked inside them maybe once.
Who wants to read the words of a 20-year-old aspiring writer on
a meaningless golf or swimming match? (Yes, I was a sports editor.)
The thought of revisiting my own juvenilia made me queasy when I
bothered to think of it.
But this fall it struck me, a case of Reunion-itis. Yes, 15 years
ago this fall I was starting my senior year at Princeton. I dragged
out 1988, Volume II from its resting place, blew the dust off "Jane
L. Chapman" on the front cover, and opened the massive book
with trepidation.
I found first a letter from my mother. She was sending some clippings
(positive press about me) but Dad, bless him, wanted them back.
And how were those new shoes working out?
Smiling, I found the heart to read some of my own words. Cliché-ridden,
true always one of my faults but here and there sprinkled
with some original and entertaining bits. A golf coach described
a loss as "a spastic attack." A volleyball story, though
riddled with phrases like "prowess," "force to be
reckoned with," and "the roof caved in," at least
showed enough insight to prove I'd been there and been paying attention.
And as a final reward, I came across a profile of Mitch Daniels
'71, complete with a hilarious picture, it must be said, from his
Nassau Herald. Then he was being singled out as an adviser to presidential
hopeful Dan Quayle; some 12 years later he'd earn a place in my
other set of volumes when PAW featured him, sans the wide stars-and-stripes
tie of the yearbook photo, as director of the Office of Management
and Budget.
Which proves you can't escape history. Especially when it follows
you in five-pound Bound Volumes.
Jane Martin 89 is PAW's former editor-in-chief. You can
reach her at paw@princeton.edu
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