Let
a man, then, obtain as many books as he wants, but none for show.
"It
is more respectable," say you, "to spend one's money on such books
than on vases of Corinthian brass and paintings."
Not
so: everything that is carried to excess is wrong. What excuses can you find
for a man who is eager to buy bookcases of ivory and citrus wood, to collect
the works of unknown or discredited authors, and who sits yawning amid so many
thousands of books, whose backs and titles please him more than any other part
of them?
As I grow
older, I become ever more conscious of the confusion between appearance and
reality. As we place greater value on externals over internals, we also focus
our attention on the impressions of things instead of the nature of things. We
settle only for how it feels, failing to look through at what it is. Passion ceases
to be tempered by reason.
It saddens
me when I see the disconnect in others, and it shames me when I see it within
myself. The temptation runs deep, if for no other reason than how the inaction
of conformity seems so much more comfortable than the action of reflection.
I detect
even the odd contradiction of following a certain image that vainly insists
upon following no image at all, of buying and selling masks of manufactured individuality,
of caring that others take notice of how we pretend not to care what they think
of us.
It would
be easy to blame a love of wealth for all this, but I suspect it goes far deeper
than just giving everything a dollar value. Money can itself be yet another
convenient veneer to cover up any natural worth. No, I wonder if the root cause
is a fear of genuinely being ourselves, sheepishly expressed in becoming whatever
we believe the fashion of the hour tells us we must be.
Such
posing and posturing can be found in all aspects of life, even as I have personally
experienced it most closely in the field of education. Some people promote
their images through the lure of sex, and others through the intoxication of
power, and yet others through the illusion of insight. For those who are
impressed by the trappings of culture and refinement, clever phrases can be as
seductive as pouty lips.
If I wish
to only appear as thoughtful and profound, books can become the perfect accessory.
I need not read them, of course, only display them, and I have then presented a
package of how I would like to be perceived. It can be as simple as having a collection
of poems casually peeking out of my bag, or as grand as filling an entire room
with trophies of intellectual status.
The next
time I open a book, let me be certain I am not intent on being admired. The
next time I add a volume to my library, let my concern be for how understanding
its contents might improve my soul, not for how showing it off will increase my
reputation.
Written in 10/2011
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