CAKE | 12 — Shelf life
I recently got rid of my books. Not all of them, obviously. I bought a smaller bookshelf and sorted out the ones I didn’t want to hold on to any longer. I was determined to drop some weight. And to increase my sense of space. Parting with my books was surprisingly easy. It did take several days but at the end there were at least seven piles of books I no longer cared to keep. And some of them, the unfortunate ones that I couldn’t give away or sell, I unceremoniously dumped in the trash. Without even flinching. I felt no regret. Instead I was elated.
As a kid I hid in books and behind them. I piled them around me. They were the perfect cover from yelling fathers, crying moms and despicable school kids making fun of me for not knowing something or for being odd. I figured out life through fiction. Books were my armor against the ridiculously overwritten world I was thrown into. At times I didn’t leave home without one. My family led a simple life and money was always tight but books caused my only materialistic tendency. I felt like I needed them. Needed to own them. A room full of books filled me with a sense of possibilities I thought I didn’t possess.
What you read is who you are. I've read that somewhere. Though that phrase doesn’t take into account all those lost souls who never read. Seriously. Who are these people? And what keeps them going? Ignorance is bliss, they say. Maybe not reading is just another way of coping with our ephemeral existence. You wouldn’t want to know how the movie ends. Or while watching think about how it’s all a projection anyway. With stage hands and key grips, backlighting, framing and editing making this experience possible. It would spoil the whole thing or even make it unbearable to continue watching for some. I guess not knowing is in itself an armor. Just one with a limited sense of self. Attempting to decide which way of life is more risky would be nothing short of speculation though. Anyway, I am diverting.
Life is transient. So is reading. The moment of recognition, astonishment or joy or even pain is over before you know it. And rereading the book or that one glorious passage seldom brings back the desired emotions. There is no there there. Gertrude was right. I carried all these books with me long enough, up and down stairways and up again, into new apartments in new cities and I am fine to go on without. Maybe I have began to internalize the mindset of the sharing economy. Maybe I have toughened. What counts is what the books leave behind. So much more than my mind can compute. They did their part. And it's not like I'll ever stop reading. I can't imagine ever not looking for new ways to make other people read either. I actually made reading my job. That kid from way back when must be really giddy.
Case in point. A book I plan on reading next is Jenny Offill’s Weather. Just ordered it at my local bookstore. Her last novel Dept. of Speculation is a gem. With its crystal structure, clarity and brilliance, it is an amazingly intense and simultaneously light read about a dissolving marriage. I held on to this one by the way. But could easily part with it if any one of you would like to read it. Just drop me a note. I'm happy to share.