I BURN BOOKS
Yesterday I burned a book in my wood burning stove. It is the first time I have ever destroyed a book
and I am still a little jumpy about it today.
The book, A
Critical Analysis of A Heart of Darkness was published in 1963. It cost $1.55 at that time. I bought the book
in Canada five years ago at a used book store.
I paid $3 for it. Both price tags
are on the book cover.
I have never read A
Heart of Darkness. It has always been on my list of “must read.” But I haven’t gotten around to it. I think I
have another copy of the book in my growing pile of buried books and buried
unmet good intentions. And I also have a
free copy downloaded on my IPAD.
When I purchased this book, I really believed I would finally
get around to reading A HEART OF
DARKNESS because of the critical analysis.
How great to read this book today and then read what someone thought
about the book fifty years ago. I
wondered how different the perspective would be after fifty years.
Fifty years ago. That
a long time ago. I was just learning to
read then. My father was just starting
his law career. Mary Poppins was in the
movie theatre. My youngest brother
wouldn’t be born for another 7 years. We
did not know much about Africa then. Our
worlds were much smaller. The world was so different then. And I had a piece of this old world right in
my hands.
Last week, I pulled this book out of my "to read"
pile. Now is the time to read this book. I cracked it open, literally and
figuratively. The binding cracked as I
opened to the introduction. The first few pages now loosen from the book. The pages were yellowed and smelled musty,
dirty. The print seemed too small by
today’s standards.
Though less than 200 pages, the book seemed heavy, awkward
to hold. It required extra care because
it was so fragile. I held the book with
a stressful hold, careful not to cause any more damage.
I started with the analysis and didn’t like the author’s
style. It was too hard to focus on his
words. He used big, unnecessary words just
to show off. My eyes wandered around the
page, trying to find a focus or phrase that stuck out, grabbed my attention. But nothing spoke to me. I just read words, comprehending nothing.
So I moved on to the middle of the book and looked for Conrad’s
prose. I leafed through the pages and
assumed that I must have an abridged edition of the book. It was only 80 pages long.
I start reading the story.
Again, nothing grabbed me. I
couldn’t discipline myself to start with the first word and move on to the second
word and then the next and then the next.
The story didn’t hold my interest.
There was a third section to the book. Already, I don’t remember what it covered. I just leafed through it with disinterest and
then dropped it on the floor.
I am fastidious about my books. I don’t like to put any marks on them. I don’t underline or make any notes on the
side. When I lend out a book and upon
its return, if I notice doggy eared pages, that person goes off my “to lend”
list. When I finish a book, I want it to
be as pristine as when I bought the book.
When I finish a book, I think about its next use. I may keep it with the intention of
re-reading it. I may give it to a friend. Or I donate it to my public library. But I never, never throw out a book. There
has to be a home somewhere for this book.
I stared at the book, tossed on the floor by my bed. Now what do I do with it? Who wants this smelly, old, uninteresting book? Than I thought the unthinkable; I will burn
it.
It was cold inside my house.
I wanted to start a fire in my small, wood burning stove. I thought these old, dried-out pages would
finally serve some use. I envisioned
them going up in flames instantly. There
wasn’t a drop of moisture in them. I
quickly dismissed this vulgar idea, this atrocity to literature. I couldn’t bring myself to commit this
act. I don't destroy books.
Three days later, I tripped over the book. It still laid in the same spot all this time. Now it has a slight coating of dust on
it. It was even more undesirable.
I held this book in my hand and thought, why am I holding on
to this book. If I donate it to a
library, it would be no more than five minutes before the librarian accidently
on purpose throws it out. Why should I
burden someone else to get rid of this pest?
Why couldn’t I do the same? Today
is the day to relieve myself of the burden of owning this useless book. Today is the day I am going to burn the book.
I tear off the first section of the book and throw it in the
fireplace. I lit a match and sure
enough, the fire caught on quickly. A musty smell filled the air.
Then I step away with regret. Had I made a mistake? After all, it was a first edition
paperback. Maybe I should stop and take
the remains to a rare book store. Then I became annoyed with myself. The damage had been done. All evidence of the
age of this antique is now gone, burning up as smoke in the chimney.
I think again of fifty years ago. Kennedy was still alive. The Beatles were performing on the Ed
Sullivan show. There were only 3
television shows. This book is a piece
of that history.
Or was it? Was it a
best seller? Did it really add to the
advancement of literature? Or was it
purchased and assigned only to college students who had no other choice but to
read it. I will never know. I just know
that I didn’t like the book. But now I
am holding on to it. Why do I feel a
need to hold on to everything? Why must
I feel a need to add to the over abundant documentation of American history.
Today is the day to free myself of this need to hold on to
so much because “it may be worth a lot”, ‘its old”, ‘it belonged to my mother”,
“I could sell it on eBay”, “someone must want it”, “I am going to read it someday.”
Nobody wants this boring, smelly old book. I ripped off the second section and it too,
went up in flames. Now I am committed to
seeing this through. I throw in the 3rd
section. The entire book is engulfed in
flames. It is only a matter of minutes before
all that remains is a heap of charred paper.
I close the door to the stove and try to deny my guilt.
