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Sometimes these days, when a shipment of books arrives at the house ("I ordered these? No way. Oh…I remember, now.), I think of those rivalrous articles in science magazines from just a short while ago: is the universe boundaried? (Yes, and it eventually collapses. No, and it will expand forever.) Cosmologists seem to have wandered on to even more exquisite concerns ("dark matter" is old stuff now, and it appears to have retreated along with the jitterbug and dropsy), but those furious debates in which the universe was alternately squeezed in and then pulled out, like an accordion, are dearly missed.

And I wish the universe better luck than Planet Albert currently has. There's no room for expansion here, and each new book only sorely contracts the space that remains. There are days when it looks as if one more vintage paperback (where can my near-mint, lurid Dante's Sinferno go?) will fill the only vacancy left, and any book after that will need to be strapped to my Nissan's fenders.

There are many books in the last few years -- it seemed to me more than ever -- that celebrate just such bibliophilic sick pleasures as mine. I'm thinking, for instance, of A Gentle Madness by Nicholas Basbanes, a wonderfully anecdotal, in-depth survey of book collecting (both sober and maniacal) over the centuries; and The Book on the Bookshelf by Henry Petroski, the history by an engineer (so it's technical, yes, but colorful as well) of shelving, so neglected by biblioscholars, and here brought to vibrant life by the author of an earlier work from a similar "empathetic engineer's-eye-view," The Pencil.

But any browse through a bookstore will easily turn up further examples; often the cover art is an antique engraving or woodcut, or a photograph of spines of what are clearly old (used/rare/gilt decorated) editions. You might think that it makes me happy -- this sudden flurry of praise for the book. But the essence of a eulogy is also praise, and I'm afraid that's what the flurry is all about: swan songs from an industry that's e-booking its own product into oblivion. All of those Palm Pilots, waving goodbye.

It always happens, this sudden and last-minute fascinated focus on what's disappearing. Endangered animals; quilting bees; old-time burlesque; the pinball machine...they all have their books, from the days of their sun's setting. And now the book on the book (I mean, of course, the book on the real-deal paper, printed thing) is bringing that list to its close. A celebration of the book? -- well, yes, it's that. But it's also a mourning. A kaddish industry.

Obviously I hope I'm wrong. But a lot -- a lot -- of money and fear and greed and techno-expertise is betting on the silicon chip and the screen. And, face it: primacies dwindle away. The future needs to eat the present. "Sometimes these days, when a shipment of books arrives…," I began, but a "ship" is no part of my orders' delivery, any more than the flashing digital watches that my students wear move "clockwise."

I think it's my job to keep this seminal change from happening too swiftly. I think it's my job to steward a sanctuary for books. They're crammed; but, hey: at least they're here. I think it's your job, too. If this might be the age of the book's demise...well demisery loves company. As Elton John says, "it's lonely out in space."

And speaking of rocket men: In the early 1940s the pulp sci-fi adventure magazine Captain Future had its loyal fans. The eponymous space-zooming hero did go out to the universe's expanding rim, as if his superscience had conquered infinity itself. In the Winter 1944 issue, one reader wrote in: "I have an invalid father and an ailing mother to care for and it's up to me to look after everything besides performing heavy manual labor on my railroad job. Without Captain Future, my life would be dreary, gloomy and lonely indeed."

But that letter appeared in the final issue. Not too long after, the pulps ALL were dead. We had entered a different future.

Look for Albert Goldbarth's books on BookSense.com.

AG's first take on the expansion and contraction of the universe.

Albert Goldbarth, Distinguished Professor of Humanities in the Department of English at Wichita State University, has recently published Saving Lives: Poems and Many Circles: New and Selected Essays. He is the author of more than 20 collections of poetry, including Across the Layers: Poems Old and New, The Gods, Adventures in Ancient Egypt, and Troubled Lovers in History.

He received the National Book Critics Circle Award for Heaven and Earth: A Cosmology, the Chad Walsh Memorial Award, and the Ohio State University Press/The Journal Award in Poetry. Jan. 31 was nominated for the National Book Award. He has also published three volumes of essays: A Sympathy of Souls, Great Topics of the World, and Dark Waves and Light Matter.

Further Reading

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