I bought all three of the books pictured above off the $1 cart at Troubled Sleep during a recent stroll.
None of them were high on my list to read, but I had a reason for picking up each: I’ve never read a full book of Lispector’s, but plenty of essays in which she is referenced; Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead is one of my favorite books, and Lila is set in the same world; Artaud is something of a mad forgotten genius, but he has some of my favorite quotes about writing and writers, including this unforgettable quip:
“All writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try to put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs.”
Now all of these books are sitting in a pile next to another pile of books and Spanish flash cards in an already-crowded Brooklyn abode.
They’re the latest books I’ve bought hoping to one day read, despite becoming increasingly aware that I will probably never have the time. They join a used copy of Henry James’ The Europeans and a photo/essay book about 1980s Japan purchased the weekend before, to say nothing of the dozens of others in the aforementioned Brooklyn apartment, and the (quite literally) hundreds back in Oregon, filling my childhood bedroom.
I’ve gone years without buying a new pair of pants. It’s hard for me to go a week without a new book.
When I was younger, I bought paperback volumes at a ridiculous pace, operating under the illusion that I was selflessly stockpiling them for my future self. “I know he’ll want to read them,” I thought. “And unlike me, he’ll have the time.”
I’ve now reached an age where I know this won’t be the case. I know there will be no magical future when my life is suddenly less busy than it is today, and I will get to fill all that extra time with all the books I’ve been collecting over the years. I doubt I’ll read any of the three I just bought, and this was something I was aware of even as I handed my whopping $3 over.
But if part of reaching early-middle-age is accepting that no, unfortunately, you won’t have the time for all the things you want to do, another privilege of this age is getting better at simply enjoying things for what they are. And most of my books, are in truth, just decorations. But they’re decorations I wouldn’t ever want to live without.
After my walk, I stopped at a Thai place for dinner, where I worked on drafting a novella which, unlike all the books, I hope to one day get to. I skimmed through the Lispector novel as I did so, motivated not only by its slimness but also the occasional paragraph I turned to at random and read purely for its rhythm and lyrical punch. That evening may be the only time I ever spend with that book — but those few hours are already worth more than the dollar I spent.
I don’t regret buying a single book in my life, even if many, unlike the Lispector, won’t ever be opened. Simply because: I like being around books. I like having them stacked in the room. I like having them taunt me when I’m too tired after work. I like having them greet me when I get up in the morning. Their sheer unreadable volume is its own distinctive pleasure — for it reminds one of life’s incomprehensible vastness.
When I was younger, I only bought paperbacks. Now I’ll often splurge and buy large (and expensive) photo books as well. These are at least easier to skim, but still, most of them just sit there.
My favorites are usually travelogues of one form or another (Josef Koudelka’s Exiles, or Sebastião Selgado’s Other Americas). And while a photo book is no replacement for travel, skimming through one reminds me of why I like to travel in the first place: to escape the familiar, both literally and figuratively; to see things which are made significant simply because I’m abroad, or to see things I could only see away from home.
I’ve always joked that I have a camera because it makes me travel, and I travel because it makes me use my camera (rather than just have it sit on the shelf with my books).
A photo is never the thing photographed. But at their best, the books I’ve collected, even sitting there unopened, are like a cool ocean breeze drifting through an open window: not the sea itself, but they carry something in them that only comes from the sea.
The novels I’ve bought but have yet to read function in much the same way: they are postcards from countries, literal and imaginary, poetic and banal, that I may never visit, or even just glimpse. But they make me feel small in a way that makes me feel grateful.
Our lives may be short or our lives may be long, but they are never all that large. We only know so many people, we only go so many places, and yes, we only read so many books. I’ve read more than most, but less than many others, and even then, most of the ones I’ve read I’ve forgotten. All that remains is a vague feeling of pleasure (if I enjoyed reading it) or accomplishment (if I enjoyed knowing I read it), and maybe one or two ideas, but nothing that compares to the richness of the text itself. (I once read all of Nietzsche’s major works for a class. All I remember is how much he contradicted himself.)
My life would feel incomplete without the act of reading itself, just as my life would feel more unbearably small if I was only surrounded by the volumes I’d read or knew I’d one day read.
There’s no way to compensate for the fact that the world — no matter how you measure it, no matter the ruler you use — is much larger, more mysterious, and richer than our brief, ignorant lives will ever comprehend. So much is unknown, unseen, or ignored. So much is waiting, within arm’s reach or thousands of mile away.
To be reminded of our smallness is a blessing. One that books — read and unread — are happy to provide.