Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman Page B

me reading a catalogue, I could say I was doing research.
    I
think I read catalogues for the same reason George stuffs himself with hors d’oeuvres at cocktail parties: they’re free. How can he justify going out for sushi when all those lukewarm pigs-in-blankets are there for the taking? Similarly, how can I justify a stroll to the newsstand to pick up
The New York Review of Books
when Alsto’s Handy Helpers is right there in my mailbox, offering, among other memorable lucubrations, 105 words in praise of the Ro-Si Rotating Composter? I also read catalogues in order to further my education. Had it not been for Design Toscano Historical Reproductions for Home and Garden, I might never have learned that the three parts of a sixteenth-century close helmet are the visor, the ventail, and the beaver. Finally, I value catalogues for the privileged, and sometimes aesthetically stimulating, glimpses they afford of worlds from which I would otherwise be barred. Who could read the Garrett Wade tool catalogue without thinking, “This is a poem”? Not I. In fact, here it is. The following syllabically impeccable haiku consists entirely of items you can order by calling (800) 221-2942:
Joiner’s mash, jack plane.
Splitting froe? Bastard cut rasp!
Craftsman dozuki
    I hope you noted the Japanese touch in the final line, which refers, of course, to Item No. 49117.01, a saw whose blade “has a very smooth action with a very narrow kerf.” (I am currently composing a villanelle inspired by the word
kerf
.)
    It would take an epic—to which I fear my abilities as a poet are unequal—to do justice to the tools purveyed by the Sempiternal Rose of mail order, the 1902 Sears, Roebuck catalogue. Its offerings included twenty-two different blacksmiths’ hammers, twelve watchmakers’ files, and seven cattle dehorners. Six hundred thousand people paid fifty cents apiece to read it, not a small sum if you consider that the same amount or less could have bought them one four-hook corset, two turkey calls, three solid-silver thimbles, four boxes of foot powder, or five false mustaches. The best thing about the Sears catalogue—a feature sadly missing from almost all its descendants—was the thirteen-page index. Who could read
     
Abdominal Belts…………
466
Accordions………….
205-206
Account Books…………..
261
Acme Gall Cure…………
412
Acme Harness Soap………
411
Adjustable Combs……….
498
Adzes……………..
515-516
Air Tight Stoves…………
827
Albatross Cloth………….
836
Albums, Celluloid and
 
Plush……………
269-270
    and remain unmoved? And who could resist such blandishments as “LADIES, YOU CAN BE BEAUTIFUL. No matter who you are, what your disfigurements may be, you can make yourself as handsome as any lady in the land by the use of our FRENCH ARSENIC WAFERS”?
    Note that the estimable copywriters of Sears, Roebuck & Co. said “You can be beautiful,” not “
Be
beautiful.” This is an important distinction. The tiny bit of wiggle room they left has since been lost, buried deep beneath the Catalogical Imperative:
• Cut tough toenails easily.
    • Stop ugly fungus.
    • Stop grinding your teeth at night.
    • Stop bad breath in pets.
    • Turn your home into a massage parlor.
    • Enjoy bagels. Without a detour to the emergency room.
    • Make 12 incredible-looking styles of paper shoes and then go for a walk.
    • Serve up a deadly charge with the Swatter Electronic Insect Terminator.
    • Shoot yucky green goo over 35 feet.
    • Fill the plastic mold with peach flavored gelatin and a few hours later, out pops a flesh-toned left hand.
    Even the ever-obedient Anne F. rebels. I won’t!
    But such boorish commands (quoted verbatim from Healthy Living, The Sharper Image, and Brainstorms) tarnish only the low end of the catalogue-writing spectrum. At the top, although the second person prevails, the mood—as it was in the golden age of arsenic complexion wafers—is declarative rather than