Out came a thought and then another...

A love for reading and a love for books do not always mean the same thing. I came to this conclusion, standing in front of my bookshelf, sometime ago. For, piled one on top of the other, in a suffocating manner, at a height intended to escape my direct vision, were all the books I had bought in a frenzy of possession year after year after year.

When sanity had made a brief visit a few months ago, I had rearranged my shelves by usage and interest (I think both words mean the same thing), which is why the books that had been picked off based on colour, hearsay, thickness, author name, and had subsequently lain unread, all found themselves in suffocating piles in a couple of top shelves (funny that top shelves are actually not the top choice shelves isn't it?). How on earth did I buy those? I wondered. A pj answer to that question would be with money of course. So let me reword that question: what possessed me to buy those books? A desire to possess books surely. I can imagine myself, with hungry eyes, looking for printed matter that would look good on shelves. I am certain that a more patient browsing would have convinced me that such books are better left than bought. But, there they were, damning evidence on the top shelf, pointing an accusing finger at my frivolity.

After concluding that when people say, I love books, they probably mean the hungry-eye-disease, I asked myself which of the loves I had. Was I someone who loved reading? A small voice said yes. But I wasn't satisfied with that. Somewhere in all the training to be responsible adult selves, our system inculcates a reliance on proof. If it can be proved, it is true. So I set about gathering necessary materials, which involved asking myself more questions. For instance, will making a list of 500 books I've read (500? read? who am I kidding?) prove that I love reading? Or will comparing my top 100 books against various book lists that abound in the web be a better barometer?

On thinking through the question, I felt that I must make a list or write a note mentioning all the books that have contributed to the person I have become now. In doing so, not only would I know which books mean the most to me, but the process in itself would be proof of a love for reading. I believe that books that become valued over time are the ones that have been written in the spirit of sharing some truth that the writer deeply believed in. The writer may or may not have been aware of this truth coiled inside him. The process of writing would have culled out the half-thoughts and finally extracted that truth in its purest form. Such writers would have found both joy and agony in the process of writing and the very act would have stretched them into a shape that they did not know existed before. As readers, when we partake of that purity, we soak in secret what was written in secret too. One awareness speaks to another in silence. And we get stretched into new shapes too. All irreversible, all magical.

Reading, like friendship, depends so much on chance. You never know what the book in hand holds for you. So how do you decide which book to hold? Or is decide the wrong word? Do you let yourself be led by intuition or do you make a list of 50 books to read this year or do you just tick off readymade lists that other people have been kind enough to share? I am quite undecided on the answer. Last year, I allowed myself to be led by reviews and read a number of recent books. This year, I've made a list of authors to read and am confining myself to their works except for the odd dip into Woolf or Wilde. I find that both methods work for me. One thing that I haven't done, and I am grateful for it, is to decide how many books to read this year. Reading by numbers might offer a disciplined approach to some, but when there is a natural urge to read, I don't think numbers are necessary.

Years ago, Oscar Wilde wildly said, We live in an age that reads too much to be wise. I wonder what he would have thought of the present day deluge of publications. He would have had something wicked to say about the mindlessly accumulated top shelf, perhaps a twisted sentence about how all reading is quite useless. But for me to be having this thought, this communication with a man from ages past, is the gift of that thing called reading. Not a score, not information processing, but joy and pleasure and oneness. You are smiling aren't you?

Posted by Echo/Lavanya on Tuesday, February 27, 2007 at 8:50 PM | Permalink