The Soul of a Book

Do books have souls?

Shall we write the Pope a letter of inquiry?

Does a book remain a precious thing, in and of itself, even if no one reads it, even if no one cares? Like a neglected old man in a musty old room, is its mere existence still of value, even if only to God?

I ask this possibly nerdish sounding question for a reason. Because I am a nerd.

No, that's not why.



I ask it because, as I reported here some time ago, my county public library is not a no-kill shelter for books. If nobody checks out a certain volume within two years, it gets offered to the public like a sad old dog for adoption. If no one comes to love it and take it home, to the dumpster it goes along with the rest of the trash.



So popularity rules and Harry Potter is assured an indefinite stay in the stacks whilst Boswell's Tour of the Hebrides might get sent packing if the local high school teachers don't assign it for a reading project.

That bothers me.

I feel that a public library should be a temple of knowledge, not just free advertising for the latest scribblings of Steven King and Danielle Steele.

For some time now, I have attempted to resume my reading of the Cambridge Ancient History Volumes -- rudely interrupted at Volume 11 when I didn't check out the massive tomes quickly enough to keep up with the Doyennes of Discard.

I went online. No library in the state of Virginia apparently carries these weighty works anymore, these intricate and detailed explorations of human history. Wanna buy one for yourself? Sure, Amazon will oblige -- for several hundred dollars apiece.

Yesterday, I had a revelation. I remembered the bibliophilic Nirvana of my old college library -- told you I was a nerd! -- where no book was apparently thrown away unless the pages were shredded or a newer copy was purchased.



I drove on down to the closest university near where I work. Sweet literary lust fulfilled -- they have EVERY volume of the Cambridge series. Since I know the librarian, She made me up a library card post-haste and I went home with Volume 11 -- The Roman Imperial Crisis and Recovery -- and a whole sack of donated books from their sale shelf, too.

Sweetie will not be happy with more books for my shelves. I'll make it up to Her on Valentine's Day.

Moral of the story: I'm a nerd.

No, the moral of the story: At universities, books still have souls, whether or not the Pope has made a decision on the matter yet.

College nostalgia

I had occasion last night to visit a university in my city. I've long known it was there and wanted to explore it, but just never got around to doing so until now.

If some advanced alien race is ever on the verge of annihilating humanity as a dangerous, useless cosmic parasite, perhaps we can offer our invention of the university in our defense.

I loved my years there, except for finals weeks. I had to work hard to get there and stay there -- three jobs just to pay the bills. So I had no time or energy for keg parties and all that crap. I took the absolute max number of credits that the university would allow me, even though everyone thought I was nuts, and it did about kill me. They stretched my not-so-brilliant mind until it literally did ache.

And I made sure to also take some out-of-the-ordinary courses just for fun, like Bulgarian and botany.

Is there any other place on earth where youthful naivette and intense wisdom so freely mingle? Where arrogance and humility, incredible tolerance and ridiculous intolerance are so freely evident? Where a poor kid from some distant village can sit in the same classroom with a sun-tanned daddy's girl/mama's boy from an exclusive gated community and compete for the same grade?

I prowled every corner of my university -- its art displays and mysterious corners, its every field and building, its every possibility, from the law library to the farm where new strains of plants were being grown.

I miss that energy, that vitality, that wonderful place so much.