I've been enjoying one of the latest social media rages: the seven-day #bookchallenge, in which one posts a picture of the cover of a book that's particularly meaningful to them, with no explanation, and calls out someone else. The tweets evoke questions, memories, and insights while adding to my mental stack.
While no one has called me out, this past weekend my wife and I went through our own form of the #bookchallenge. In preparation for our upcoming big move*, we've been slowly going through our house and cleaning out. We've done clothing, furniture, assorted other items, with even more to come. And after nearly 25 years of marriage which has included rearing two adult children, we have accumulated plenty of stuff. Plus we're both English majors and English teachers by background, who both write and who love to read. You know what that means...
This past weekend, we took on the books.
Now we have 10 good-sized boxes of books to be given away and/or sold. Some were easy to scuttle. Perhaps the initial attraction had faded. Others elicited sharp pangs of guilt, as if I'd used them for what I wanted and then cast them off. Most were somewhere in between. Actually, most stayed home, as this was perhaps, at most, a third of our books.
I found myself wondering what someone rummaging through these boxes might conclude about me from these books, beyond that I'm a #booknerd who possibly could become a true hoarder. (It's a good thing they can't also see my e-book library.) Perhaps I should say, rather than wondering, what I hope. That I'm a learner, with an eclectic, electric curiosity. That I want to improve. That I draw from an array of resources in my quest for understanding. That I must weave a dense web of what I take from each book. That reading is my way of connecting with people and the world in ways I otherwise couldn't.
For those us who are true readers--that sounds snootier than I want, so I rely on your knowing what I mean--that final point is at the heart of a love affair with books. It's relational. It may have begun in any number of ways. Perhaps it was a need to combat loneliness or to battle introversion. Maybe it was to stoke intellectual sparks that school failed to feed. At the other extreme, a teacher may have offered that book which turned on a kid previously averse to reading. It could be simply an innate love of words and language and story. You likely have your own story.
For us the books are more than the collections of words and ideas. It's their design; yes, to some degree, we do judge a book by its cover. It's their sensory appeal; we like the way one feels in our hands, the tiny joy of flipping a page, the delight in opening the cover when both starting and when done. We engage in conversations with the author. Especially if we write ourselves, we empathize with the courage and determination and talent and self that author is sharing with us. It's all as visceral as it is intellectual.
It's why we can't understand those who don't/won't read. Yes, we judge them. Surely, we figure, they simply haven't found the right book. It's why, when we're struggling to explain something, we reach for a book. It's why we share books, offer reviews, stay up too late reading, build tottering piles, buy more than we can actually read.
And it's why culling is more than a #bookchallenge. It's damned hard. Sad. Painful. You may be wondering why we don't just keep all our books. Pragmatism has its place. It also forces a healthy reflection. This process reminds me how much I treasure books and what they suggest about me and the culture of which I choose to be a part.
We have a bit more to do before I take all the boxes to the used-book store. The clerk will, I'm sure, offer me just cent(s) on the dollar. That's okay. No one can properly monetize books' true value.
*For those who don't know, after 9 great years as head of school at St. John's Episcopal, on July 1 I will become the Executive Director of the Northwest Association of Independent Schools. We'll be moving from our beloved Dallas to Seattle.
