Sarcastic comments about book hoarders are heard from
time to time, poking fun at the irrationality or pretentiousness of those who
want to be surrounded by books. This relatively minor criticism echoes more
fundamental misgivings about the relevance of books. As there are few true
philistines left in the modern world dependent on learning, there seems little
point in offering new insights in defence of books. And yet it might be worth clarifying
the matter a little more while reflecting on the collecting urge of
bibliophiles and literary connoisseurs.
Every time I
cast a casual glance at book cases in my office I feel excited. And it is not
because of the pride of having read some or bad conscience about not yet having
read others. The look of their crests displaying the titles and authors’ names
creates emotions similar to those experienced when remembering friends or
recalling past events. One is
momentarily transported to a different place and time, to a different realm
created by imagination. Sometimes, through a chain or domino effect, one is
taken into worlds created by different books. The mechanics of this process are
as complex as nanotechnology of the iPhone, and, just like in the case of this
exquisite device, the final outcome appears simple, effortless and none short
of spectacular.
The letters of
the English alphabet constitute twenty-six elements of a code that is capable
of producing an endless number of combinations known as words. These then
become versatile building blocks used to express ideas through phrases and
sentences. They in turn, combined together, form whole narratives, such as
essays, stories and novels. When absorbing them during the reading process, the
mind is involved in a complex decoding process. It scans the combinations of
the cipher’s elements and their arrangements and produces
images generating a variety of responses such as pleasure, anxiety, sympathy,
hatred, awe, sadness, and joy or disappointment of discovery.
Naturally, this
is not a phenomenon unique to the English language. All other written language
systems involve complex decoding of messages, which, while exercising the mind,
gives its owner a greater benefit than more passive ways of engaging with ideas
and images. Their permanency depends on the narrative itself and the level of
engagement with it. Plots and characters of paperback romance novels may not
remain for long even in the minds of those who love this particular genre. At
the other end of the spectrum are particularly insightful essays and science or
philosophy books that help to make personal intellectual discoveries. The extensive
centre of the continuum is populated by literary items that stir our minds to a
degree that varies depending on factors such as the nature of the text, the
circumstance of reading it and our own personality.
Enthusiast of
classic quantum theory would argue that the world around us is nothing but
images and ideas in the mind, which have all the appearances of materiality but
do not really materially exist. One does
not have to subscribe to this unorthodox view to appreciate the role of written
language – complete with the excitement of deciphering encoded meanings – in
shaping our environments and ourselves. For instance, one cannot deny the huge
importance of textbooks in the acquisition of useful and applicable knowledge.
The Bible and other sacred or profane texts play an important role in
comforting or satisfying curiosity of those who seek answers to philosophical
questions, including the most fundamental metaphysical ones. Newspapers update
us on what is happening around us, and literary fiction is there to provide
entertainment mixed with a varying dose of didactic content.
Engagement with
a book may leave a lasting impression. Concepts and emotions may stay for a
long time to be evoked when a book is remembered, which is reinforced by its visual
and audio adaptations. Most of the books in the average personal library are
those that the owners care about enough to justify acquiring and keeping them,
rather than relying on occasional access through libraries. And it is these
books that even when their crests are looked at will evoke a myriad of memories
and associations. One may sometimes end up trapped in this endless chain, aptly
likened by Jorge Borges to a labyrinth, from which one may never emerge, as in
the case of the fictional character of Don Quixote.
The owner’s
passing glance at his or her book case could be compared to flicking through
images in a personal photo album. Friends usually feature there, whom one only
occasionally meets, with a frequency depending on the level of intimacy and
geographic proximity. One could be thousands of kilometres apart, and yet the
images of these people are always in subconscious storage ready to be brought into
consciousness at a whim. The favourite books in the library are indeed like
friends. We may not reach for them for some time, but the very look of their
crests or covers will bring to mind their content and associated images, ideas
and emotions. We can picture their stories and plots, just like we can remember
time spent together with friends, simply by flicking images on the memory’s
touch screen. Even without real, physical encounter the mind becomes full of
stories, pictures and sensations to call upon, making us feel connected and
excited.
These cerebral
phenomena often lead to other people and books that have been forgotten,
reminding about their existence and relevance. There are many old masters of
literature, whose writings are relevant today but the language and style they
employed often create formidable challenges deterring from active engagement.
Dickens may serve as a useful example. The
universal essence of his “Pickwick Papers”, which is shared by Cervantes’s
“Don Quixote”, Saint-Exupéry’s “The Little Prince” and Hašek’s “The Good
Soldier Švejk”, remains relevant, excites and provides material for recycling
with thought-provoking or humorous outcomes. The potent image of a creature as
if from a different planet, interacting with the real world, possesses
fascination that story-tellers cannot resist, and whose allure extends beyond literature,
as Woody Allen’s “The Purple Rose of Cairo” and “Zelig” certify.
It is to Steven
Jarvis’s recent peculiar creation “Death and Mr Pickwick” that Dickens’s first
major work may owe future revival of readers’ interest. Mr Jarvis’s novel is an
illustration of how a book can be created with a main purpose to remind of another
book whose currency continues, though its memory may be covered with dust and
cobwebs. A copy of “The Pickwick Papers” is proudly kept, glanced at often but
unread, by many book lovers and pretentious snobs. While Steven Jarvis’s
voluminous analysis of the origin of Dickens’s novel may not end up being kept
on too many book cases, it has put a spotlight on an old masterpiece and its
universal message.
This is an
example of a rare current narrative opening the forgotten door to a
prominent old one, and to other narratives and ideas. It also shows that books
that require too much trouble and time to read may still provide intellectual
enrichment, particularly if they are treated like friends. Bibliophiles and
intellectuals would surely be grateful for door-opening efforts similar to Mr
Jarvis’s with respect to great literary experiments and other formidable texts such as James Joyce’s
“Ullissess”, Thomas Mann’s “Doctor Faustus” or László Krasznahorkai’s “Siobo There Below”. These and other valuable tomes
feature in many a library but are, sadly, often unread and misunderstood.