THE OPEN ROAD

peace, love, happiness & understanding

April 29, 2021

BIBLIOMANIA

I like to think of myself as a bibliophile, but the correct term would probably be “bibliomaniac.” There is definitely something nutty about my relationship with books. Here’s an example:

One day I had selected a stack of about eight books to check out from the downtown branch of the Multnomah County Library. I brought them to the front desk. The librarian began checking them out. About halfway through the pile she said: “I’m gonna have to cut you off here. This doesn’t happen very often. You aren’t allowed to have more than 500 books checked out at a time.”

See what I mean.

I love books. I console myself with the thought that there are worse things to be addicted to. Probably meth would be worse, in the long run.

As a lad, I hated school. It impinged upon my freedom to go wherever I felt like going and do whatever I felt like doing. Halfway through my Freshman year in college, it dawned on me that going to school was optional. I walked away. I still sometimes have dreams where I walk out of school and get the most wonderful feeling!

Once I left school, I started reading like a madman. I could read anything I wanted to! It was thrilling! I carried a backpack with me wherever I went, with at least five or six books in it. I had to have a lot of books to choose from, because I didn’t know in advance which book I would be in the mood to read once I sat down in the coffee shop. I carried a bag of books with me for many years before I noticed that most people were walking around without any books! That seemed strange to me. It still does. 

Like, what if someone found themself somewhere with nothing to read? What would they do? Fortunately, I’ve never had that experience.

I start the day sitting on the couch. Then I begin building my nest. By ten o’clock I am surrounded by piles of books. Ask Nancy.

Instead of going for a long walk, I’m much more likely to reserve a book from the library with a title like: 50 Best Oregon Hiking Trails. 

I consider my books to be my friends. And many of the authors, likewise. I feel very fortunate to have Walt Whitman and William Shakespeare as companions on my life journey. And it’s lovely to make new friends. Wikipedia says that Thomas Traherne died in 1674, but that doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We just recently became close.

As I get older I read less and less, and slower and slower, but I still need to have a lot of books nearby—maybe the way some people enjoy having their golden lab sleeping next to them. When I come home, all my books wag their tails. The shelves are crowded with worlds waiting to be explored.

There are so many books! Way too many to read in a single lifetime! (Maybe I’ll have to come back again and again, and get a new library card every time.) Of the books I have read, I can’t remember much. Nevertheless, some books changed the way I see and experience the world. I guess one of my ambitions is to live a life rich in meaning. Books have helped me with that.

I read slowly. Sometimes a few words are enough to satisfy me. I put the book back on the pile, happy as a clam at high tide.

I’ve always dreamed of writing a book. I’ve gotten so much pleasure from reading books, I’d like to give that same pleasure to others. But I don’t know what to say. Or how to say it. I’ve kept a journal for fifty years. I write letters. I’ve written a few poems and stories, theater pieces and essays. I guess I’m writing this little essay, or whatever it is. If I do ever manage to get something I’ve written published between the covers of a book, it will probably consist of short things. I don’t seem to have the attention span or the work ethic to write something long.

When I was young, I just assumed I’d effortlessly write a great book someday. Perhaps the “effortlessly” is the clue to why it never happened. Who knows? I may still write a book and get it published. I’m not dead yet.

Here are a few of the books I’ve enjoyed most:

I put a picture of Autobiography of a Yogi on the first page. I read that book when I was 19 and it opened up a world that I didn’t know existed—the world of the Indian yogi. It turned out that that world was quite congenial to me. In my twenties, I lived for a couple years in India with yogis. For yogis, silence—inner stillness—is important. For me, too.

Three of my favorite short stories are: “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, “Dream of a Ridiculous Man” by Fyodor Dostoevsky, and “Tenth of December” by George Saunders. (Jason Beito recommended the latter story to me.) The words “human” and “humane” are related. It feels like certain works of fiction subtly enlarge our humanity, make us more human—more kind. Maybe all of Charles Dickens’ works do this. One thing the world could use a lot more of is kindness. These stories can help us with that.

I’m re-reading Huckleberry Finn (again). The older I get, the better it gets. I’m not alone in rating it the greatest American novel. It would be hard to find a more entertaining story, or a more keen-eyed observer of human foibles than Huck.

Last Sunday, we celebrated William Shakespeare’s 457th birthday on Zoom with friends from all over the place—Curt Tofteland and Ashley Lucas from Michigan, Howard Thoresen from New York, Stratis Panourios from Athens, Alan Benditt from Seattle, Todd Oleson from Walla Walla, Keith Scales from Eureka Springs, Arkansas, Aaron Gilbert from Roseburg, Allen Mills from Newberg, and a number of friends from Portland. Since a lot of us have had experience acting, directing and going to see Shakespeare plays in prison, that’s mostly what we talked about.

What makes William Shakespeare so important to me has to do with the fact that he didn’t write novels—he wrote plays. And you can do the plays! Putting on his plays is an even greater pleasure than reading them. You learn the words! You play the parts! You rehearse the scenes over and over. Finally, you perform the plays for your friends! In his day, actors were called “players.” Kids need to play, but grownups do too. There is no one more fun to play with than Will. And no better place to play the plays than in prison.

Another book I’m re-reading (again) is Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being by Ted Hughes. It’s my favorite book about Shakespeare. Ted Hughes is a poet; with great intuition and sympathy he explores the personal, historical and mythological dimensions of Shakespeare’s plays and poems. I had always wondered about Shakespeare’s inner life—who was he? Ted Hughes goes where a vast army of Shakespeare scholars have never dreamed of going. For me, reading the book is thrilling—which is kind of weird for a book of literary criticism, if that’s what it is. Okay, that’s not what it is. But what is it? I don’t know. It doesn’t fit into any categories. It’s not like any other book. When I get to the end, I’ll start again at the beginning.

Over the years, in trying to better understand the meaning of my human life on Earth—(what’s going on here?)—I’ve continued to study what might be called “the wisdom of the East.” Joseph Campbell is one of my favorite guides. If this is a subject that interests you, I would highly recommend the book Talks With Ramana Maharshi, and the writings of R. H. Blyth, J. Krishnamurti, Shunryu Suzuki, Thich Nhat Hanh, Alan Watts, Lao Tzu, Seng Ts’an and Han Shan.

I’ve probably read more nonfiction than fiction. With nonfiction I can learn things I didn’t know, and even change my inner landscape. I thought this essay would be about how books have shaped the way I see and experience the world, but my mind meandered off in other directions. Maybe I’ll write that essay another day.

For a bibliomaniac like me, the subject of books has no beginning or end. Like the great globe itself, the world of books is vast beyond our ability to know it.

A poem that changed my life and has enriched it endlessly is “Song of Myself,” by Walt Whitman. It’s good to read and re-read it aloud, as often as possible. If when you read it, you mean what you say and feel it, it will do something big to you.

If I could take only one book to the proverbial desert island, I’d take The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. A most rare vision! It hath no bottom.

We’re off to Mexico next week! Back in a month.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.  

—William Shakespeare, Prospero from The Tempest, Act 4, scene 1

peace & love

Johnny