On books
and why physical media matter
I have moved around … a lot. Over the last 4 years, I’ve emigrated 4 times, from the country I was born in, to Scandinavia, back, then to Eastern Europe, and now to the British Isles.
Every single time I did that, I had to say good bye to some books, either by just leaving them at my childhood home, or donating them to residents of my building through a sign that said “free books”. Every single time I tell myself to just buy an e-reader — I have an iPad I bought 2 years ago for this purpose and I’ve barely used it.
I felt a sense of victory when I noticed that my Anarchist and Communist collections were picked up almost immediately — I hope they radicalized other people in the same way they radicalized me. I hope Sapolsky’s and Sacks’ books inspired others to delve into biology and neurology. I was glad my math textbooks found their way to another student’s apartment — may they succeed in their studies. I hope whoever picked Susskind’s theoretical minimum books fell in love with physics the same way I did.
Despite the moments of joy, I have come to feel a deep sense of regret, all the knowledge and experiences are now gone forever, unless of course I purchase the books again.. but is it worth it? I don’t know, I am leaning towards yes.
This feeling stems mostly from the books I hadn’t read. In a sense, the fractal bud became smooth — I get to live in ignorance of all that could have been, and as if that’s not enough, it feels almost as bad as saying goodbye to a friend — lost potential. Perhaps I am projecting deeper issues, perhaps it’s just not that deep… so it goes.
In situations such as these, when we say good bye to the infinite futures that could have been, looking back is always painful. We are often told, with good intentions, that the past is in the past, and “Que será, será”. We are asked not to look back. But we do, we look back, and I love this for us, because it’s so human, and we turn into fountains of tears… So it goes.
In an attempt to ease the pain, we frequently rationalize such decisions. The latest lie I’ve told myself in this regard is that I was simply not meant to read them. I wasn’t the intended audience, I was merely a messenger, carrying books that I will never read intended for others I will never meet… So it goes.
I’ve talked about potential, and books — for me at least — are just that, the physical manifestation of potential, of all that could have been and can never be because I can’t take the time back… So it goes.
The thing is, I keep purchasing more physical books and I will continue to… books are ideas and thoughts given substance, they are the hopes and dreams of humanity materialized (even if the books themselves are about something else).
Books … they give hope; they represent who I can become should I accept the invitation and pay the price — a piece of what everyone else gets, a piece of my lifetime.