Books are the building blocks of the road to an open mind. A
good book is the makeshift teepee I hide under in my bed when the world is
being too worldly. It is the stone I throw when I aim to hit the nonsensical blabbermouth
with some knowledge. A good book can bend your perspective to see light in the
darkest places. I can’t quite put into words how it feels when I am holding a new
book that I am eager to read. I love the feel of books, the smell of the pages,
learning new words. The list goes on. Books are the shit.
HOWEVER
Sometimes life gets hectic and I can’t find enough time when
my brain isn’t mush to soak up some pages. And it always seems that at this
time someone always lends me a book.
Seems harmless enough…
…but is it?
I know that when someone wants you to read a book they mean
well. Unless it’s one of those self help books and they give it to you with
that self righteous face saying “You really NEED to read this.”
That’s just really irritating.
But yes, when someone lends you one of their books, that
book transforms from a glossy rectangle of escape to a sharp edged, weighty
obligation.
When I own a book, I can read it at my own leisure. I don’t
have to discuss it with anyone unless I so desire. I can rest my coffee cup on
it, mess up the cover, get mad but then move on with my life. It’s my book so I
can enjoy it how and when I please and when life gets too crazy, I know that
the book will be waiting for me whenever I am able to see it again unlike the
surly friend you didn’t remember to call back.
BUT when that book isn’t yours it simply ruins everything.
You’re suddenly pressured to read a book that you may or may
not have any interest in reading. From
here you have two options. A) Read it as quickly as you can so you can return
the damn thing or B) put it aside and let it burn a hole in the back of your
mind every waking minute and burden you with an incredible sense of inadequacy
every time you see it sitting there unread…yet another thing that you simply
can’t get done.
So option A tends to be the better option as it’s like
ripping off a 562 page band-aid. This hurts in so many ways…your wonderful
quiet escape into fascinating worlds becomes an endless trudge though romantic
drivel or laborious wording that makes your face throb like a sinus infection.
You’re trying REALLY hard to like the book but you just want
to get it over with. You skim as best as you can while getting the general idea
but you really don’t retain too much because you’re a rebel at the core of
things and your subconscious just won’t let you embrace the bastard book
dropped on your doorstep. You finish it…or at least can honestly say that your
hand turned each one of the pages individually…and you go to give it back.
It’s finally over.
To which you want to respond, ‘I think I just lost several
hours on my life to a mindless persecution’
And now you are forced to discuss the book in length as if
you were back in grade school being abruptly woken from a nap by the English
teacher asking what you thought about the last few pages of Harriet’s
Daughter. FML.
The second option of casually ignoring the presence of the
book is about as healthy as any other kind of attempt at prolonged suppression
of negative emotions. You know the book wields the power to riddle all of your warm
feelings of being at home with gnawing guilt and self-condemnation and you just can't keep it around. You are also sick to death of every single conversation with the lender beginning in the same way.
You may wonder why a swift
return of the book isn’t the first option but you have to remember that anyone
willing to burden you with a laborious novel is also willing to burden you with
an even more laborious, long lived guilt trip about the time you cast away
their very well meaning gesture of asking you to read a book that repulses you on a cellular level.
So now you are in the merciless jaws of guilt. You can’t
return the book without reading it and avoid a long life of nagging from your
butt-hurt friend. You can’t ignore the
book at home and read something else because it is like trying to eat your favourite dinner while
simultaneously trying to ignore the fact that all of your molars need root
canals. Even if you manage to put off the guilt around not reading it you still
have the pressing responsibility of being in custody of someone else’s property
that if lost or damaged will lead you to the same guilt trip acquired from not
reading it in the first place. Or worse, the combined insult of not reading it
as well as returning it dog-eared may trigger your friend to lend you another
book about the importance of being reliable. So option B always leads you back
to option A…except you are now an emotionally strained, rather unnerved yet
subdued version of yourself accepting your fate like a man on death’s row with
nothing left to live for. Thanks a lot pal.
So the moral of this story is that if you want someone to
read a book, just suggest it verbally or buy them a damn copy. That way they
can conveniently forget to order it off of Amazon or happily stow it away
indefinitely without the menacing return date eclipsing the light from their reading lamp.
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