Last week I got a book in the mail. It's an encyclopedia of superstitions. I like to keep my mind busy with odd books. I've read a few good ones by now. This one is not one of them.
And it's not the first time. A few years ago I got a book in the mail. Free mail is always advertisements. This other book was no exception. It was about some general political debate, but it was not well written or researched. It's purpose was to sell me an opinion.
The strange thing was I can't say it felt like getting an advertisement. It was thick and heavy. Most junk mail is a small, light flier.
I kept it.
And I've done this before. Once I kept a phone book, and later, an illustrated encyclopedia of US history. The history book was covered in beer stains. The phone book could be thrown away since I have the internet.
Why do I keep them around? What do I tell myself about them? Once or twice I say "I like the challenge of enjoying a bad book and I will try to do something about it. I will expose the fraud. I will flesh out the history." Then I come to the phone book and I'm stumped. I'm more motivated to leave them as they are for some strange reason. Sneha calls it the kid who has so many toys he doesn't know which ones to play with. But I'm not just overwhelmed. I think I'm also superstitious. Have you ever wanted to make a painting, or an essay, and didn't know which part to start on?
When I apply logic, here's what comes up. I probably like things that are meaningful. I like meaningful people. I like meaningful songs and stories. These books, I see them as meaningful. But they're not! For instance, the encyclopedia covered only the media sensations, when some treaty was signed and so on -- the boring version of history. The same for the phone book and the political gimmick. The author was lazy, or there was no author, just a machine. So these books are without meaning but I keep them. That means I'm in denial.
Since I can't bring myself to say they're not interesting, it gets stranger. I try to recognize the books have potential. I think I could use them as art somehow. Maybe it's not a book about politics or phone numbers. Maybe there's something else to see in it. I could abandon it. But trying to get rid of them means I have defined them. I want to doodle in the margins. Maybe it has its own poetry. In my mind, they're full of life and mystery. They need their independence, but at the same time, they are loved. It feels strange to like something so odd, so sometimes I say "this book is half me, and half not me." I fear that once I know their personality, the objects lose this quality. They become explainable. Then I don't want them.
So it's really about superstition. It's not supposed to make sense, and that's the point. Here I have on the one hand, books: vessels of knowledge, wisdom, insight, and personality. And on the other hand, they are empty of substance. They're written poorly or churned out by a machine. They lack art. But someone pretends to believe otherwise! The author, the publisher, by even making these books are saying: "Here, that is all this needs." I say in reply, these are a canvass to paint on that's already full of words.
I don't keep it around to read them. I've tried. Not happening. I don't even want to ask why I was given them. Gifts make you react, and imagine your purpose. They can make you feel incredible duty for protection. They blur the lines. I imagine this also something behind friendship and love.
- Lewis Tupper
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