Holy Book

 

July 25, 2022

 

Greetings from between the pages,

 “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend.  Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.”   Groucho Marx

 One of the richest sources of life, second only to living it, is to know the lives of others.  We find ourselves connected to people and their stories through relationships with people that matter to us.  The more of these connections that exist, the more interesting and satisfying (and challenging) our days can feel. 

 Then, there are the calling cards of the lives around us.  There are songs, there are children, there is art, there is the spoken history of their existence.  And, blessedly, there are books.

 There are only rare times in my life where I was not reading a book, or about to.   (We can agree not to bother with those years before I was capable of reading since it spoils the point, and none of us want to appear pedantic.)  I don’t know if I was a discriminating reader, there were more forgettable westerns or science fiction than there were classics.  I will also confess that often you would find such masterpieces as Mad Magazine interspersed with more serious writing.  Hopefully I have not completely diluted the first sentence; books have always been integral in my life.

 When I was young, owning a book seemed to me to be a badge of success, a grown-up thing to aspire to.  All the books I thumbed through belonged to the library or my school.  I imagined having a shelf with leather bound tomes, none of which had the little index cards in the back reminding me when they needed to be returned.

 It took me time to accumulate books, mostly from prowling used bookstores.  Most were tattered paperbacks, with that musty smell that is unique to the specie.  I was given a few books, including an enormous dictionary, which was not my usual kind of reading, but could be said to contain all the other books I ever read.  Just slightly out of order.

 I once traded a hat for a book.  The hat suggested too big of a personality for me to wear and looked better on the man who gave me a copy of ‘Centennial’.  The book kept me company for weeks.  It transported me from lonely moments, from difficult challenges, to another place, to other lives.  It also made me wonder, even when I wasn’t reading.

 Not every book is worth reading by every reader.  In my younger days this would sound like heresy.  Even today I feel compelled to finish even the most awful book out of respect for the author, but I am slowly understanding that if the relationship doesn’t work, there’s no guilt to be held, or harm done.  We simply learn what we are able and move on to other pages.

 I love books, more now than twenty or thirty years ago.  There are some who might describe me as a bibliophile, which I will go on record as saying is a terrible word for what it intends.   I love to read, to know the lives of others, more than I love books for themselves, so perhaps the literal definition of bibliophile misses the mark.  Now I am being pedantic.

 Books are a holy thing to me now, beyond grammar and punctuation and tables of contents and copyrights and even authors.   I know more of the joy and ache of writing, what it means to express ideas in words in a meaningful way, and how rare and beautiful it is to push past the blank page to what could be waiting when the words settle down in their places.

 The living captured in books, comedy and tragedy, is meant to be added to our own lives.  In small ways we are changed, and what was written becomes woven in us in the days that follow. 

 These perfect gifts of paper and ink are a record of what happened.  A place to be curious.  A fantasy.  A story that takes us away from the drudgery of washing dishes or some glamor that sucks our soul.  Books are written by people.  It is a legacy, not only of the author, but of all who existed in the influence of the writing.  The writer’s story, and every small story that feeds their writing, holds in it the rich variety of life that is deeper and more powerful than simply words on paper.

 You can make friends, travel, learn, taste, understand, empathize.  You can be entertained, you can gather strength in unity, you can find answers, or find the path to more questions.  You can be curious, you can love, you can be outraged, find peace, or simply marvel at the living that is shared.  All of this from the comfort of where you are, simply by turning the page. 

  

Hope this finds you lost in the words,

 

David

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2022  David Smith