Shopenhauer once intimated that we love to buy books because
we believe we`re buying the time to read them.
Ah yes, the ambition to write feels no less noble than the urge
to read, but then, there are many kinds of satisfaction. I feel that I would
find greater satisfaction in writing a book for once rather than reading one. I
have bought many a book, and buying a book presents an interesting moment. We
purchase a book with the assumption that, based upon the merit of a brief
perusal, said book will satisfy our expectations. By the time we make it
through the checkout our expectations have become faith, and that faith becomes
a very substantial hope that the time spent reading that book will have made
the time spent looking for it well spent. As it is in almost all facets of
life, the satisfaction of well spent time is the most satisfying of all, for it
echoes in the great halls of our souls the vibration of satisfied sighs.
However, the satisfaction of writing a book seems almost bittersweet. For whom would we write for? Then
again, for whom do we really read for? After one reaches a certain level of
satisfaction from the reading of books writ by others, one begins to dimly
envision the perfect book for them, but who can write for oneself but oneself?
The bittersweet fact is that we cannot find the perfect book for us, because
there is nobody like us that can write it for us, and yet we are all
inescapably the same, like so many La Salle’s in search of the Fountain of Youth. To find the book with the perfect blend of mystery, excitement, emotion,
toil and pain, like unique foggy wisps of the perfect eluding us amid the
ethereal swamps of a new world, like the gypsy chord that progresses forever, the
poetic curse that renders the clouds to become unborn of rain, and the exotic
face that greets us upon every horizon...and yet is only the manifestation of our own
commonality, looking into the eyes of another mundane world.
And so, here we find ourselves, you, somewhere in the future
reading these very words, and I, somewhere in the past writing those same words
which, to me, seem to hold a strangely miraculous potential; not a perfect
potential, but still a potential. The potential to affect and instigate those
cute and various intimate human reactions, like a frown, a smile, or those
little noises one makes at oneself when one is alone and thinking. Sometimes a
burst of laughter erupts and dies into a chuckle, sometimes the soul leaks from our moving eye,
sometimes a sardonic grin comes upon the scene with sadistic intent...yes, we can
always count on that precious choice, the choice to stay up well past our
bedtime, curled around a mental motion picture drawn from the words of our
culture that is so familiar and close to our mind that we cannot lose a single
second of well-earned insight into the story that we command with our eyes
and hands.
The great thing about reading a book is that we can read
it as slow as we want and yet the quality remains intact. The mind is where the
timeless moments are made.
There is a mysterious love for books. I don’t know about you but I
really like to smell them. Every book has a different perfume.
I think also there is a correlation between books and
people. It takes time reading them and knowing them, seeking out those intimate
intellectual, emotional, and psychological moments hidden between the
breathless and still fabric of the cover, an interior that comes alive under
the tender pressures of the searching eye, like an artist visualizing a
landscape upon the canvas of hope and trust, like a reader touching a book with
his or her imagination which is as unique as the finger prints left upon it’s
pages, and from those pages, the reciprocating act of intimacy occurs! A
memory is born from mental experiences molded with words, understood
in thought.
Reading a good book in a timeless moment is like a relationship
without the headaches! Oh that we were all books! But we are all ever-changing
entities, and our stories know no end. Apparently this is why we are always in
search of our perfect book. But I wouldn’t have it any other way because the future is what
keeps us interested in the present. It is the expectation, the energy, the
sap, the adrenalin, and the water that maintains the engines of our nature.
But concerning books in general, don’t we just love the
childish hope that some occult and esoteric trinket will fall from between the
pages to land upon the floor with a glint, a promising ring, a dimensional key
to another world allowing us to experience via our imagination the blue
horizons of unreachable landscapes? We even love to hold them, except of
course, when we are standing in line at the library.
Doesn’t just a little childish giddiness come over us when we have discovered a promising title? We grab a pile of pillows, root out
a little spot in the back of our bedroom closet, push aside the silent sentinels of our secret haven languidly draped upon the hangers, usher
in a mug of hot chocolate and nestle in for another journey of a
thousand miles that thankfully doesn’t start with a leaky hose and a broken fan
belt, because closets have no mechanical parts, except maybe the doors. And
what of those notes that someone else has scribbled in the margins? Just a rare
opportunity to read the demented minds of the forgetful without them knowing,
something even superman can’t do!
Even if we don’t have the time to read books, we still like to
fill up austere ebony cases with books embossed with letters of dark and gold,
standing out like frozen flame on faded canvas, intriguing and mysterious,
hinting to the occasional guest that an artist or a great scholar lives here.
Ah yes! Just a little conceit exists when it comes to books, whether it is in
the owning of them, the writing of them, or even in the reading of them. Don’t
we all love to be caught reading something auspicious?
But a title is only as good as you make it, and it pretty
much holds no further virtue in it’s integrity unless discovered, for integrity
exists not within the book, but without in the eyes of the reader. Only dignity
is that dark gem which exists within the sole entity and is the foundation upon
which integrity is built, but that’s another topic for another time.
The degree of conceit that must exist to make one think,
nay hope, that the world will want to read ones renderings is staggering, and I
half expect to reel from the shock of stepping on a step that isn’t there.
Furthermore, who the heck would want to be caught reading this?
Not to contradict the insight of that sage who phrased
his thoughts very carefully in that profound proverb "A picture is worth a
thousand words," but I must quote yet another sage who conversely said,
"A word is worth a thousand pictures." The novelist Joseph Conrad also
once said "One must not put his trust in the right argument, but in the
right word."
The true artist should look beyond the step that may or
may not be there and gaze beyond upon that dark impenetrable canvas of mystery
and dreams, and create his imagination upon that substantial void, where he or
she has all the room in the world to portray ones heart. And if he or she
stumbles, at least it won’t be an issue of self-consciousness, for their motive
will be without shame. Yes, I will admit a little conceit is there, but not
shame, and no apology. It seems the oftener I observe, that it is the true
artists who only create for their own satisfaction. Public admiration is just a
bonus. Ever notice that the truly great artists of yesteryear didn’t have an
identity problem? Yes, maybe they were a little conceited, but at least they
knew who they were and what they wanted in life and were confident in that, and
in their artistic abilities. They made no apologies for them, even though they
may have been "different,” just as we make no apologies for being
"human."
As far as apologies are concerned, when I say that the
great artists of yesterday didn’t have an identity problem and made no apology
for being just a little conceited in their own creative abilities, (and rightly
so) I never once said and so much as I can tell have not implied that I am some great
artist. So! With that qualifying statement, I am allowed to make
apologies, even for making apologies.