The Most Prized Book

In a recent email exchange, a member of my longstanding writing group wrote about a title on her bookshelf:

“This particular edition is literally the most beautiful book I own.”

That line not only stopped my heart—just the idea of the most beautiful book one owns!—but it also made me think of a question to ask in return: What book that you own do you prize the most and why?

As we come to the end of another year, here’s a celebration of favorite books from my most prized writing group.

Caroline Starr Rose

Hands down it's my used bookstore copy of The Phantom Tollbooth, which I bought before I began my student teaching in an attempt to build my future classroom library. I read it in sixth grade and adored it. I went on to read it probably 30 times more with various classes over years. It's filthy (grubby teacher hands in the days of chalkboards), has my lesson plans throughout, and happily!! has been signed by Norton Juster and Jules Feiffer. Feiffer signed my book on a horrible day—the DC sniper was roaming the very road the bookstore was on (or so everyone thought when they were sure he was in a white utility van), and there was a terrible rainstorm.. I sent the copy with a friend to SCBWI's national conference for the Norton Juster signature.

Stephanie Farrow

By far my most treasured book is The Little Prince, a Czech edition I discovered in Prague. The text flows across the paper in handwritten calligraphy, and it’s easy to imagine St. Exupèry himself penning those lines. It doesn’t matter that I don’t read Czech. I know there’s a story living there.

Vaunda Nelson

It would have to be my father’s 1944 copy of The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.  It’s in poor condition — broken spine and coming apart.  But, the front endpapers contain all Dad’s addresses beginning in 1945 (when he was 24 years old) through the home where I grew up and in which he died.  There’s even a mention of his Navy service.  How he loved this book.  Saved within its pages is a letter from a favorite aunt thanking him for sharing some of Dunbar’s work at a Sunday family gathering.  As much as it pains me when people dogear pages, in this case I am thankful Dad did.  He left me a gift, a record of some of his favorites, hints to what was meaningful to him, clues to knowing him better.  Thanks, Dad.

And what about me, I thought? What’s my most prized book? I decided to cheat a little and pick twenty of them.

My 20-volume set, that is, of the Oxford English Dictionary, a gift from a generous friend. He’d housed it in his office for years and gave me the lot upon his retirement. It’s a gift that keeps on giving. Most days, I try to crack a volume and find a word I didn't know before.

Here’s to words that give joy!