Why books?

Why books, you might ask? I truly don’t know. I was that kid in elementary school who would rather read a book than play outside, the fifth grader who got in trouble at school for reading her mother’s books rather than something “more appropriate” for a ten year old, the middle school student who frequently got caught hiding novels behind her math book, the ninth grader voted “most likely to be found with her nose in a book” and the twenty-something who would rather read than date. Perhaps it’s because I was raised by bookish parents and most likely it had a lot to do with the fact that I was an only child who didn’t have any same age neighbors until I was school-aged. Whatever the cause, I was an incurable addict long before I started school.

I think that those bibliophiles among us (I feel certain that you must be at least an occasional member of this fringe society if you have taken the time to read this far into this blog) are part of a strangely elite group, or perhaps it would be better to say reverse elite because I think that we make efforts to be inclusive despite opposition. The exclusion, if any, comes from a culture that treats reading as a second-rate pastime. The poor, misguided book enthusiast is handled with gentle condescension. He is given names like bookworm and dreamer to hint at the strangeness of his obsession. This group takes for its mascots the elephant and the primate, that literary pachyderm behemoth who, when given paint and paper, chooses to make art, and our oft-scorned simian cousins who can not only master basic words (ASL) and concepts but who can string them together in increasingly complex communication and who, when left to their own devices, promulgate these words and ideas by passing them on to their young. We elect leaders such as Abraham Lincoln, who said that his best friend was anyone who could give him a book that he had not yet read. We sigh in sympathy with Emily Dickinson’s praise of her “kinsmen of the shelf” and cringe in horror at the totalitarian regime depicted in Farenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury’s futuristic novel, named after the temperature at which books burn). We speak the same language and walk the same streets no matter where we live, as was best described by Lizette Woodward Reese. I think that somewhere, at a level that few of us would admit, we wonder if our veins aren’t filled with ink rather than something as mundane as blood. Whether reading leads to a life of dissipation (as asserted by thinkers such as Schopenhauer, Huxley and Rousseau) or it is a crucial part of the conscious life (as per Gertrude Stein, Emerson and Charles Scribner), is irrelevant: we read because we have to do so. True bibliophiles, like any other addicts, read because we have no choice.

So, if any of these statements ring true for you, come in. Sit down. Be welcome. Put up your feet and stay awhile because you have found a new home. Most importantly: join the dialogue. Be part of the community. Share your thoughts. Challenge your perceptions. Introduce each other to literary gems and hidden treasures. Ask questions. Voice opinions. Argue when it seems appropriate. Celebrate your passion for words. Just be sure to speak up…I want to hear you.