Books - the intimacy of the living word...
Carlos Ruiz Zafon, the Spanish author of "The shadow of the wind" begins his tale with a father walking his young son to an ancient library buried in the deep alleys of the city ; mysterious and not widely known to people. The boy is apprehensive, and rightly so, with this nocturnal journey that he has embarked upon with his father. On the way, he is told in rather somber tones that a secret will be revealed to him today and it needs to be safeguarded, hidden from everyone he knows and loves. Finally, they enter the hallowed and gloomy enclosure of the building, where all that could be seen are rows and rows of countless books : neatly bound with their spines in crimson, green and blue, sparkling with constant attention of its custodians. The book house runs into multiple floors and on each them a few scholars hooded and bent over their desks are deeply immersed in contemplation over the musty pages of their books. The father takes the boy to a dark corner faintly illuminated by a single candle and tells him these immortal words :
'...Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens..."
And so continues the beautiful, dark tale that Carlos weaves for us over the next four hundred pages. I started this essay with the above preamble on Carlos book for the reason that the written word and its transmission is what culture and civilization is all about. Take that away from Human history and nothing else remains but raw biological needs that we share with our ancestors. A Book is a mystery by itself : One never knows , whose destiny would it be to pick it up; whence will it be read; whether at all a right chord be stuck in the reader; will understanding ensue ;- transforming and churning its contents within the fermenting mind of its beholder; will even a single thought propel out of its pages to ignite a fire that will scorch and consume the spirit of its reader and awaken a new dimension within . Each book then is an immense potential waiting for its beloved.
I really cannot imagine a home of an educated man not having a collection of books that have been read and loved. They are the purest ambrosia of life. To wander, transgress, argue, consent with the thoughts of those who have had the gift of stitching their inner journey together into words and sentences is a pleasure that one should not deny oneself. The beauty lies in the fact there are no distinctions in a book : good or bad, right or wrong are meaningless phrases in this context. A right book in the right hands with a ripe mind is the ultimate synthesis, synergy and ordained coincidence in life. It is very instinctual, a gut feel that a particular volume may be the right one for "you". The Human spirit gravitates to the written word with an inner pull, that many of us choose to ignore in various diversions that the world offers otherwise. Take a little time and walk into a second hand book store, where books are piled on top of one another, mixed, no apparent order or uniformity - and allow yourselves to bask in its atmosphere ; feel the musty smell of paper, touch the brownish edges of an aging volume, read a few lines from a random book, imbibe the effort that would have gone into creating those sentences that were once hidden within the secret chambers of a long dead author; and slowly you will find yourself narrowing on a book. It has been waiting there, throbbing for your attention; yearning to be held in the palm of your hands, to breathe new life into its words... all this and more will happen if you listen to your inner voice...
So Ladies and Gentlemen : Read..
God bless...
'...Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens..."
And so continues the beautiful, dark tale that Carlos weaves for us over the next four hundred pages. I started this essay with the above preamble on Carlos book for the reason that the written word and its transmission is what culture and civilization is all about. Take that away from Human history and nothing else remains but raw biological needs that we share with our ancestors. A Book is a mystery by itself : One never knows , whose destiny would it be to pick it up; whence will it be read; whether at all a right chord be stuck in the reader; will understanding ensue ;- transforming and churning its contents within the fermenting mind of its beholder; will even a single thought propel out of its pages to ignite a fire that will scorch and consume the spirit of its reader and awaken a new dimension within . Each book then is an immense potential waiting for its beloved.
I really cannot imagine a home of an educated man not having a collection of books that have been read and loved. They are the purest ambrosia of life. To wander, transgress, argue, consent with the thoughts of those who have had the gift of stitching their inner journey together into words and sentences is a pleasure that one should not deny oneself. The beauty lies in the fact there are no distinctions in a book : good or bad, right or wrong are meaningless phrases in this context. A right book in the right hands with a ripe mind is the ultimate synthesis, synergy and ordained coincidence in life. It is very instinctual, a gut feel that a particular volume may be the right one for "you". The Human spirit gravitates to the written word with an inner pull, that many of us choose to ignore in various diversions that the world offers otherwise. Take a little time and walk into a second hand book store, where books are piled on top of one another, mixed, no apparent order or uniformity - and allow yourselves to bask in its atmosphere ; feel the musty smell of paper, touch the brownish edges of an aging volume, read a few lines from a random book, imbibe the effort that would have gone into creating those sentences that were once hidden within the secret chambers of a long dead author; and slowly you will find yourself narrowing on a book. It has been waiting there, throbbing for your attention; yearning to be held in the palm of your hands, to breathe new life into its words... all this and more will happen if you listen to your inner voice...
So Ladies and Gentlemen : Read..
God bless...
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