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The Zen of books
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The Zen of books
 At the Angleton Library recently, I did something I haven’t done since the 70s. And no, it wasn’t streaking. I wandered aimlessly. Without a list, or even an idea, of what I wanted to read. Usually, when I go to the library, it’s for something specific—something that’s been recommended by a review or a friend. Sometimes it’s a little less specific, like a mystery or a collection of poetry, with no specific author in mind. That way, I’m in and out in a few minutes. When I was in grade school, I read voraciously—even more voraciously than I do now. The library at Cherokee Elementary in Tulsa was divided by grade level. Cherokee was originally a K-12 school. By the time I started there it went only to 9th grade and by the time I left, it went only to 6th, but the school library still had reading material through the 12th grade level. Back then, I always entered libraries (or the Bookmobile, or the beloved used book store in downtown Tulsa where my mother and I went once a month) with a sense of adventure, as if I was going on a long trip into unknown territory. I was. I ignored any divisions by level or subject matter and roamed freely, pulling out a book here, a book there, and studying it for a moment to see if it “sparked.” I was using the Zen of reading, although I wasn’t familiar with Zen at the time—I guess Cherokee didn’t have any books about it. In third grade, I once came home with a Space Cat book, a heavily annotated copy of Beowulf, and a high school text on physics. I read the Space Cat book in about a half-hour. Beowulf took longer, but I understood it well enough to have nightmares about it. The physics textbook was bewildering, but held my interest for several hours over the week until my next trip to the school library. I continued my Zen literature method in libraries and bookstores well into my twenties. It became more fun as I read more, because seeing one book would remind me of another and send me searching for it. Finding a book I had particularly liked might send me on a quest for all the author’s other books. As I grew up, obligations placed limits on my time and I stopped wandering aimlessly in libraries and bookstores, although I was pleased (in the same impatient manner as my mother had been) to see my boys doing it. Eventually I forgot all about wandering aimlessly through books. Until recently, when I found myself in the Angleton library without a list, or even an idea of what I wanted, and remembered the Zen of books. The Angleton library is a good-sized library. When you’re employing the Zen of books, it’s huge. Not wishing to be there when they locked the doors hours later, I decided to restrict myself to adult fiction on my first Zen spin in years. I began in the middle, with H-L, and never made it any further. Sadly, I’m much older now than I was when I discovered the Zen of books—spending hours bent over with my head cocked sideways to read titles causes all kinds of problems. I found an old friend right away—Aldous Huxley, whose “Brave New World” reminded me of his “Doors of Perception,” which was not on the shelf, for reasons I can understand. That reminded of the poet William Blake, because the title is from lines in Blake’s “Marriage of Heaven and Hell” (as well as being the source of the name of the rock band The Doors). But poetry, and Blake, are in another section of the library and I was on a roll here in H-L. Huxley also reminded me of C.S. Lewis—they both died on the same day, which was also the day JFK was shot and killed. Lewis was nearby, so I cruised over to see if there were any of his works on the shelf that I hadn’t read, and wanted to read. There weren’t, but now I was standing before the works of Sinclair Lewis. Sinclair Lewis is an author like Steinbeck, who I like so well that I want to read everything they have written. I finished Steinbeck’s works long ago, and re-read some occasionally. With Lewis, I read “Babbitt,” “Main Street,” “Arrowsmith,” “Elmer Gantry,” and “Cass Timberlane.” There are still Sinclair Lewis books I haven’t read and the Angleton Library had one. I picked up “Kingsblood Royal” and moved on. I hadn’t moved very far before James Joyce caught my eye. I read and enjoyed “Dubliners” and “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.” In the early 70s, I attempted “Finnegans Wake,” and couldn’t read it. Well, I could, I just didn’t want to after a few pages. I liked stream of consciousness when Jack Kerouac did it but, for whatever reason, Joyce’s stream of consciousness irritated the snot out of me. I kept snorting and muttering as I read, and stopped when I believed I could feel my blood pressure rising as I turned the pages. Three decades had passed since then, and I decided to give it another try. Taking home Sinclair Lewis and James Joyce was pretty tame by my third-grade standard, and only partly successful. “Kingsblood Royal” is not one of Lewis’ better works, despite (or perhaps because of) being very similar to “Babbitt.” But I’m that kuch closer to having read all his works. “Finnegans Wake” is just as annoying now as it was when I was in my twenties. Joyce will never make it onto my “must read everything” list. The good news is, it’s time to return to the library. I may take my Zen to adult non-fiction this time. |
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