every book has its time
the poet shelley talked of the deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings and yet they sympathize not with us. in that, he said, we turn to love the flowers, grass, waters, and sky and there find a sacred correspondence of the heart.
to this list i would add books, for every book has its time. i used to force them, like a puzzle piece, because i had, after all, checked them out from the library and being a rule-following child and later young adult found this constituted an unspoken rule of needing to finish them, akin to that of clearing one's plate on account of children in africa. (it was also very important to me never to have a library fine, an as-yet unblemished record).
but now, having a greater urgency about how i enjoy my days, i return books that fail to resonate...unread. i do this mostly guilt-free, assuaging myself that the book is for someone else's time while i clutch a new pile in my arms, hoping for certain-as-rain friendship with the authors in tow--such affection!
for they understand the necessary loneliness it is to write and to read and how, should you turn here for companionship, it means never being alone. how else could centuries cross with a person i've never met who can make me cry (as did the shelley quote for a person who feels very much out of her own century and always has and fit exactly how i was feeling last tuesday when i read it) or want to throw a book across the room one moment and then hug it to my chest the next.
the world is often too fast for me, junk-food news and empty calorie headlines. until i meet, anytime i like, with mary oliver in her book "upstream" and, as a homemade meal still steaming, have true nourishment to satisfy the hunger i didn't know i had.
how else to learn of far-off lands, battles, people so different from myself and yet how much the same who tell me in no uncertain terms, "i understand, i've been there too" or dare me into adventures for which i have no fear. a lining up of history as impossible to separate from who i am as the soup i had for lunch. and, because it matters, when. the day before i may not have known to appreciate what was on page 76. whereas chapter 13 too soon might have been lost on me. but at the right time, the promise of an afternoon turning into the wee hours is a promise.
a promise of pages that began quite possibly with my oft-repeated sentence from childhood, "tell me a story" which i have never stopped asking, or rather declaring, the smell of vellum in my dreams and the leather lined spines indelible along my fingertips. paper scraps, photos as bookmarks falling out, all but forgotten until now, to make me smile. a re-reading being an altogether different story because it is i who have changed. the dna of pages past chaining into understanding as the tea goes cold.
books. the only thing i've ever wanted to collect (apart from a brief foray into vinyl for my turntable). so much that i am uncomfortable in homes without books and more than slightly suspicious of people who say they don't read, looking at them askance as if they'd declared they were the first human not to need oxygen.
yes, "she never had a library fine" might fit on a tombstone. but it is impossible to trace the times and places traveled, the lessons garnered, or fits of laughter layer upon layer that reading builds; the idea that lay dormant until sparked by page 34. the sentence that reminded you of a friend, and so you wrote to them just when they needed it most. no, to say "she lived in such and such a time and place and did such and such during her lifetime" is not quite to the mark without considering the books one read. can you truly say you know someone without knowing which book they would take with them in case of fire?
you can recommend a book you think someone may like, but you cannot predict for anyone what time that book will be, or if it will be. puzzle pieces are best unforced. but there's nothing better than a timely story or just-right title.
why, once i even had a good friend telephone and simply ask if i would please read to her? i picked a book of poems as per her request, read them over the phone and then we hung up. it was better than catching up or any other form of conversation at that moment and just what she needed after moving away to a new town.
yes, every book has its time. what title is it for you right now?
to this list i would add books, for every book has its time. i used to force them, like a puzzle piece, because i had, after all, checked them out from the library and being a rule-following child and later young adult found this constituted an unspoken rule of needing to finish them, akin to that of clearing one's plate on account of children in africa. (it was also very important to me never to have a library fine, an as-yet unblemished record).
but now, having a greater urgency about how i enjoy my days, i return books that fail to resonate...unread. i do this mostly guilt-free, assuaging myself that the book is for someone else's time while i clutch a new pile in my arms, hoping for certain-as-rain friendship with the authors in tow--such affection!
for they understand the necessary loneliness it is to write and to read and how, should you turn here for companionship, it means never being alone. how else could centuries cross with a person i've never met who can make me cry (as did the shelley quote for a person who feels very much out of her own century and always has and fit exactly how i was feeling last tuesday when i read it) or want to throw a book across the room one moment and then hug it to my chest the next.
the world is often too fast for me, junk-food news and empty calorie headlines. until i meet, anytime i like, with mary oliver in her book "upstream" and, as a homemade meal still steaming, have true nourishment to satisfy the hunger i didn't know i had.
how else to learn of far-off lands, battles, people so different from myself and yet how much the same who tell me in no uncertain terms, "i understand, i've been there too" or dare me into adventures for which i have no fear. a lining up of history as impossible to separate from who i am as the soup i had for lunch. and, because it matters, when. the day before i may not have known to appreciate what was on page 76. whereas chapter 13 too soon might have been lost on me. but at the right time, the promise of an afternoon turning into the wee hours is a promise.
a promise of pages that began quite possibly with my oft-repeated sentence from childhood, "tell me a story" which i have never stopped asking, or rather declaring, the smell of vellum in my dreams and the leather lined spines indelible along my fingertips. paper scraps, photos as bookmarks falling out, all but forgotten until now, to make me smile. a re-reading being an altogether different story because it is i who have changed. the dna of pages past chaining into understanding as the tea goes cold.
books. the only thing i've ever wanted to collect (apart from a brief foray into vinyl for my turntable). so much that i am uncomfortable in homes without books and more than slightly suspicious of people who say they don't read, looking at them askance as if they'd declared they were the first human not to need oxygen.
yes, "she never had a library fine" might fit on a tombstone. but it is impossible to trace the times and places traveled, the lessons garnered, or fits of laughter layer upon layer that reading builds; the idea that lay dormant until sparked by page 34. the sentence that reminded you of a friend, and so you wrote to them just when they needed it most. no, to say "she lived in such and such a time and place and did such and such during her lifetime" is not quite to the mark without considering the books one read. can you truly say you know someone without knowing which book they would take with them in case of fire?
you can recommend a book you think someone may like, but you cannot predict for anyone what time that book will be, or if it will be. puzzle pieces are best unforced. but there's nothing better than a timely story or just-right title.
why, once i even had a good friend telephone and simply ask if i would please read to her? i picked a book of poems as per her request, read them over the phone and then we hung up. it was better than catching up or any other form of conversation at that moment and just what she needed after moving away to a new town.
yes, every book has its time. what title is it for you right now?
Comments
Post a Comment