I work in a very long, narrow two-story government building. The cubicle is sometimes cell, sometimes cloister. Like the mind.
Spinal compression, unlike 401k plans, compounds faithfully. When the back groans too much I get up, walk about. I walk from one end of the building to the other purposefully. There should be no other way to walk when at work.
The gray halls are adorned with colorful framed prints meant to motivate: “Commitment – Determination Is Often the First Chapter in the Book of Excellence.” Somewhat apropos to this blog, I suppose.
But I’ve never been a Hallmark sort. I peer too closely, to the point of tedium. Why isn’t Commitment the first chapter in the Book of Excellence? And if Determination “is often” the first chapter, what is the first chapter when Determination isn’t? Who wrote this nonsense?
Or maybe it’s just that a taut figure scaling an impossible cliff against a stunning blue sky is not what I want to see every day. I would prefer graffiti on these walls to perfectly pretty dawns and sunsets. I would prefer inscrutable Dali prints. Chicken scrawl. Anything.
Once a day I stop in the kitchen upstairs, at the other end, where the cleaning ladies hang their jackets and bags. Not to gab with the cleaning ladies, who are pleasant enough. But to visit the books.
Maybe you begin to understand…
Before I was assigned to Building Y, someone – Book Being Adam – imagined a shelter for retired books and made it a reality. A white plastic table shoved up against the wall between a broken, gap-mouthed refrigerator and a rebellious microwave is where Book Being Adam placed the first of many retired and abandoned books.
Others have learned to bring the no-longer-wanted, the overstayed-their-welcome, the ill-conceived book-gift, the dated, dull, irrelevant, abused, disheveled tomes and press them together in upright rows and random piles.
Once a day I walk the length of Building Y, looking for something new. I climb the stairs and turn left. With a passing glance through the kitchen glass door I can determine whether new additions have been made.
For a book being this is not hard. If I see something new I stop in and introduce myself. If not, I continue walking, mildly dissatisfied with life and sensitive to the ironies emitting from the walls.
“Challenge – Always set the trail, never follow the path.” Always? Never?
“There is no right way, only your way.” Wow! That is quite a statement. How curious that this aphorism would hang on the wall of a military facility.
Sometimes I see something new, and I enter the kitchen sanctuary like a nervous but determined teen. My name is John, I whisper. I am a book being. But I make no promises.
I scan the group and my hand goes forth. I lift and hold and slowly turn. I evaluate the weight and bulk, the scent, texture and colors. Do I like her look? Does her name intrigue me? Who birthed you, pretty one? Anyone I know?
Having gone this far, it is easy to get her to sing for me. I open her up and turn her pages. I listen to her voice.
Weeks can pass without bringing one home with me. But recently someone has left a marvelous group, and I have been happy to rescue one each day for nearly a week now. Why not bring them all back together?
Not my style. Why not instead give others the opportunity to find these wonderful little friends? To write that first chapter, Commitment.
I rescue my favorite. The next day, I rescue another, and so on, until all the books (and only those) that have sung to me are saved from the garbage bin, or from eternal indifference. I am no sentimentalist. Some books, like some persons, reveal no soul to speak of. The garbage heap is their only proper destination.
I speak only of books, not persons. Though some may think me cold, I cannot in good conscience proclaim that every book deserves a second chance.
Can a book change what it is? Can it repent? Ask forgiveness?
Human beings, however… I am inclined to believe there is hope for all humans, even those who think it best to remain hidden.
