The placement of individual books, as well as the adjacencies of groups, intrigues me. Are they subject categories, chronological gatherings, project clusters, a map of intellectual terrain or evidence of the constraints of space and shelving? Which books are closest to the desk or kept on the desk? Which are consigned to the bottom and top shelves or the closet? Books sequestered in the shadows behind others suggest clandestine reading and hidden pleasures. Sometimes, though, they are simply gifts hidden away for a coming event — a birthday, graduation or anniversary — a greeting card, yet unsigned, often their companion.

Did the professor value dust jackets? Did he write in the books, underline passages in red, dog-ear the pages, use Post-it notes? Inscriptions on the title pages tell of personal and professional friendships. Frequently, I find book reviews tucked among their pages. Often they are about that very book, possibly what prompted its purchase. Occasionally, something unusual tumbles from the pages — Civil War-era currency or a note from a famous person. Of particular fascination are the well-worn or worn-out volumes — the indispensable reference works or canonical texts in one’s field.

Sometimes I find books belonging to libraries that long ago abandoned hope for their return. The letters of thankful astonishment that I have received from some librarians after they opened the unexpected packages are treasures in themselves. “Could we hire you to visit the homes of a few other delinquent scholars?” one library director asked. “We would be happy to make it worth your while.” Another concluded her note, “This gives new meaning to ‘Death the Grim Reaper.’ ”

Removing the books from their familiar niches takes time and requires a personal approach. I place the books in boxes one volume at a time, noting each title, silently calling each by name — a bibliographic benediction for a job well done in this place for this scholar. At times I feel camaraderie with bishops who lay hands on confirmands and unhurriedly bless them by name, one at a time, regardless of how long the line stretches down the center aisle. I have little in common with moving-company packers for whom books are anonymous blocks of paper that stack easily. There is no grabbing the books by the handful, plunking them into boxes with speedy professionalism.

But what has taken years to create, I dismantle in a matter of hours or days. All too soon, walls of colorful volumes are reduced to a cube of brown cartons resting on a pallet, without a hint of the academic landscape they once shaped. The room itself becomes stark, the bookcases empty, the sweet autumn musty scent of the older books gone, only photographs, stapler, memorabilia and much dust remaining.

I leave as quietly as I entered, carrying with me privileged knowledge — the warp and woof as well as the quirks of this scholar’s habitat.

I wonder what the experience of future librarians will be as electronic books increasingly dislodge those that can be touched, smelled and boxed. Will private collections in the digital environment add value to university libraries, or will they be constrained by complex copyright laws? Will they convey a unique ethos, capable of stirring admiration, even sadness and rituals of respect, from the librarians sent to gather them?

For the moment, the collections to which I am called still consist of paper, ink, glue, covers and jackets. I find solace in knowing that these orphaned books — White’s collection in Indiana and many others across the country — have been adopted and become the companions of a new generation of students and scholars.