October 3, 198-
Dear
Ruth,
Today
I visited Academy Books on Broadway downtown. Mr. Rieneau mentioned its owner
Mr. Sage a number of times and even suggested that we visit the store together,
but Mr. Rieneau appears to me only at night. So, I told him that I was going to
visit the store and asked him if there were any books he considered to have influenced
his life and thinking the most that we hadn’t discussed. His response surprised
me. “It’s not that I believe my favorite books are unsuitable, but that it
would be more adventuresome if you visit Mr. Sage without a shopping list of
books. Such a list would reflect my way of looking at things, my philosophy of life,
about which you already know a good deal, perhaps too much. I think it would be
better if you made your own way among the great books of the world, allowing
each one to speak to you personally. I discovered most of the books I’ve read
either by browsing in bookstores or from the books themselves. When I came upon
a writer I liked I would read many of his or her books. That way you, not I,
will decide which of those books will remain your lifelong friends and mentors.
Besides, finding your way among the great books is a lifetime adventure,
perhaps the most important because it is what Mr. Sage calls a journey of the
soul. I have already served as a friendly guide but my age and life have
narrowed my view of life and thus the books I’ve chosen to read. You should
follow my path but your own. And I believe that there can be no better place to
begin your journey among books than Mr. Sage’s secondhand bookstore. I have
visited Mr. Sage often over the years. San Diego is blessed with many fine
books stores, but he and I became friends. I suppose because we are of the same
generation. Mr. Sage is a very democratic reader of books. And he doesn’t seem
to have any particular view on life other than the good life is filled with
good books. He will recommend something worthwhile. I relied on his counsel for
many years and have complete faith in him.”
My
adventure began in a rather neglected
downtown neighborhood. The store is long and narrow, squeezed between an
old-fashion coffee shop built sometime during the forties or fifties called the
Daybreak Cafe and a 99¢ store thickly painted bright red, white, and blue. The
street is dingy and populated with homeless people and others barely getting by,
revealing the gritty side of life in sunny San Diego. Still, it’s lively and
interesting in a way Pacific Beach isn’t. I had forgotten how many people have
fallen on hard times, who must struggle each day to get by or just survive. Mr.
Rieneau would say they live on the edge of the precipice. It’s in their faces.
Worn, weary, expressionless or bewildered or agitated or angry. Walking the
streets I often felt I was walking down the corridors of a giant mental hospital.
This is a city filled with sorrow mostly kept out of sight. On the other hand,
just a couple stores over was a barbershop that serve a black clientele who
seemed joyful. Those people have never had it easy and yet manage to be
cheerful midst a life of hardship. The worlds of Pacific Beach, La Jolla and
downtown are like different planets. Among these people I feel I’ve lived a soft,
pampered, sheltered life, which I have.
As
I entered the store, I noticed that there were no displays of best sellers or
magazine racks. The store seemed no wider than a living room, but it extended
until the books at the back of the store were lost in the shadows. There were rows of shelves, one on each wall and one down the middle. The books on the
upper shelves along the walls cannot be reached without the ladders that slide
on rails. I can’t imagine what would happen during a serious earthquake if you
were caught in one of the aisles. It’s a dreary place, not a single patch of
bright color in the entire room, just grays and browns the color of tea stains,
and a dozen or so small framed black and white portraits of famous writers
hanging on the walls on each side of the entrance. It’s an uninspiring setting
to say the least. I don’t know what I expected, something cheerful and quaint,
I supposed. I found Mr. Sage sitting at the massive oak desk. He was the only one
in the store, and he was, of course, reading.
As
I entered the store he stood up and said, “Yes, young lady, may I help you?” He was a short, very thin old man. He wore an old-fashioned brown, buttoned sweater
that hung loosely upon his frail frame. I told him that Mr. Rieneau had sent
me.
“The
old seaman. He used to come here often. I expect that neither of us are getting
around much these days. How can I help you young lady?”
I
told him that I had first gone to Mr. Rieneau for a list of books to read, but
he had refused to give me one.
“I’m
not surprised. I understand why he might not wish to recommend his reading to a
young person like yourself—a young lady at that. Of course he has excellent
taste in books, but his interests tend toward works of ponderous and often
melancholy themes. He is a strange old bird, but he is well read, and though I
don’t share his particular tastes, not as a steady diet anyway, I will say that
he does not waste his time on frivolous reading.”
While
making this last point, he came around from his desk and introduced himself. I
told him he could call me Chrissie or Christine if he liked.
“I
prefer Christine. It is a beautiful name, a special name. It means anointed, to
have been chosen. Do you feel chosen, Christine?”
“I
don’t know. It depends on what you mean.”
“I
mean that we are all chosen, Christine. It’s just you have the name, so perhaps
you’ll heed the call. Most do not. Perhaps that is why you are here looking for
books. Perhaps Mr. Rieneau is suggesting to you that you’ve been chosen. Only
time will tell. For now, I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Christine.
So tell me have you read much?”
“Some,
mostly required reading in high school and college, not much in the way of
recreational reading. I majored in art and minored French in college, so I am
familiar with some French literature. I haven’t read much since graduating. Mr.
Rieneau and I discussed Camus, Zola, and Shakespeare. Mr. Rieneau is a big fan
of Othello. But he mentioned many
titles that I haven’t read.”
“Very
good, you’ve obviously done some reading, and you can never go wrong with
Shakespeare. If you visited Paris perhaps you browsed at Shakespeare
and Company.”
“Yes.
I visited the city with my mother, but I was pretty young. So is Shakespeare
and Company a theater?”
“No,
no. It’s a famous bookstore. But tell me why you haven’t been back. It’s
incredible to have studied French and not to have visited Paris as a young
woman, especially one interested in art. And those other wonderful French
writers, Rabelais, Chateaubriand, the great Stendhal, and of course Balzac,
Dumas, Victor Hugo, Flaubert, Proust, and on and on and on. The list seems
endless. You can even visit cafes where Hemingway and Sartre wrote. And to know
the language... You must go. C’est incroyable!
So tell me why you haven’t been back.”
“It’s
a long story. My mother went often, but when I was older we didn’t get along so
well.”
“You
would quarrel.”
“Yes.
How did you know?”
“Mothers
and daughters often quarrel.”
“To
her credit I took French rather than Spanish. In New Mexico Spanish is the
second language, the first in many places, so I thought I should learn it, but
she insisted. She’s a real Francophile. Thinks Americans are crude. She was
always finding fault with them. We’d argue about that, though as I got older I
came around to seeing her point of view, living in Albuquerque and all. For the
first quarter I tried to hate the language because of my mother, but I couldn’t.
I soon fell in love with the language. It was beautiful and mysterious to me.
Transporting. Now I wish my mother and I could have gotten along better.”
“Couldn’t
the whole family have gone?”
“My
dad? I don’t think so.”
“He
doesn’t like the French?”
“It’s
not that. Let’s see... He owns a water-well drilling company and that’s what he
lives for. I think in his mind Paris is fine for tourists, people who don’t
have anything better to do.” I smiled thinking of my dad.
“You
like your dad. I can see that. My father was that way. Grew up on a farm. Family
and work were all that were important to him. Well, you deserve a lot of credit
for learning the language. I studied French in high school but forgot most of
it, except for phrases like C’est Incroyable!
San blague! Let’s see, oh yes, n'importe quoi!”
“That’s pretty good. You’ve got
the accent. So have you been to Paris?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.” I smiled,
thinking Mr. Sage had been a little hypocritical in chastising me. And he
seemed to be able to read my face.
“I see what you’re thinking. Do
as I say, not as I do. So you found me out. I’m good at giving advice but not very
good at taking it, at least when it’s about seeing the world, something I would
have liked to have done myself. But I’m a homebody who has done all his
traveling through books—and movies. You probably knew someone like me in high
school. Nerd I think is the word.”
“If you mean by nerd nonsocial,
then I was one of the nerds at my high school, though they probably thought of
me as a snob, and maybe I was.”
“That’s interesting—you’re being
too pretty to be a nerd so you must be a snob.”
“I tried to be friendly but never
had the desire to join in. I lived in the suburbs. I commuted to school, rarely
saw my classmates outside of school, and I spent my summers elsewhere. But it’s
true that I felt I had little in common with the other students. Though some I did
admire but from afar. The drama students. I went to the school plays and was
asked to try out, to take a drama class...”
“You were shy. I felt the same
way. I went to all the performances and dreamed to be on stage, but no one
asked me. I did play in the marching band.”
“So you’re a musician?”
“I played the baritone horn.”
“Do you still play?”
“It’s really not an instrument like
the guitar that somebody would play for pleasure in his home. But it’s great
for football games.”
“I never went to games. I tried
once, a girls’ volleyball game but found it too noisy. The parents were insane,
more than the kids, and I just thought, Why? It’s just a game. So why don’t you travel now?”
“Maybe I will, Christine. How
long have you been in San Diego?”
“Less
than a year.”
“Are
you planning on staying?”
“I
don’t think so. I like it here well enough, I suppose. It’s just I feel
restless, but I haven’t decided anything yet. Right now I’m thinking about what
kinds of books I should read.”
“We
both can agree on that journey.”
“Let
me ask you, Mr. Sage, do you think reading has a destination?”
“Probably
many, but from my point of view reading is similar to living. You can live broadly
or narrowly. Throughout history life’s routine for most people has been pretty
narrow...”
“The
French have a phrase for that. It’s Metro,
boulot, dodo. It means commuting, working, and sleeping.”
“Leave
it to the French.”
“So
what is living broadly?”
“I
think Mr. Rieneau has lived broadly. His life is rich in both experience and
knowledge. And in his case perhaps the destinations for living and reading are
the same—to come to the end of your life and feel satisfied that you lived to
the fullest. That’s the wonderful thing about books. We all can’t be seamen.
Most people can’t just walk away from their jobs and families. Books give such
people the opportunity to become explorers. I suppose movies do the same,
though one will learn nothing of science, religion, philosophy and the many
other subjects by watching movies. Still, an important difference between me
and Mr. Rieneau is that most of my experience of life has been lived
vicariously, through the lives of the characters, historical and fictional,
that I have read about. Mr. Rieneau’s life has been a fascinating balance of
living and learning. That’s not to say I recommend devoting one’s entire life
to traveling the world. No, I wouldn’t recommend that. Both Mr. Rieneau and
myself are both life-long travelers who have come to the end of our lives
alone. The man who comes to mind who lived what I would consider the ideal life
is Charles Darwin.”
“That’s
odd. When I think of Darwin I think only of the theory of evolution and
monkeys.”
“He
was much more than just his theory. When he was only twenty-two he set out on a
small ship and spent five years surveying the world. About the age of thirty he
decided to marry his pretty cousin Emma Wedgwood. Their marriage lasted over
forty year and Emma gave birth to ten children.”
“They
must have been very much in love!”
“They
were, and I believe that had Darwin never married Emma he would still be one of
the most famous scientists of all time but his life would have been otherwise
profoundly incomplete. I think he would have said as much. His life was filled
with adventure, knowledge, and love. I think that’s a very complete life.”
“Are
you married?”
“No.
I’m an old bachelor.”
“Do
you regret never marrying?”
“Yes.
I wish I had married.”
“Why
didn’t you?”
“That’s
a very good question. One reason is that after my father died I had my mother
move in with me. She was deeply distraught by his death. And then a few years later
her sister moved in with us. They’re both dead now.”
“You
didn’t mind?”
“Yes,
at times I did, but I never felt they were a burden. And they provided for me
as much as I did for them. That is why I believe young people should make the
most of their youth—because life is full of unexpected twists and turns. And it
seems to me you’re on the right track. You have mastered French, have studied
art, and are now embarking on a new journey apparently with Mr. Rieneau as your
intellectual guide. And I expect that your young life is filled with other
meaningful and interesting experiences that I know nothing of. So now perhaps
we should talk about books.”
“Okay,”
I answered, still fascinated by how Mr. Sage perceived my life, as if it were a
great adventure when it seems to me to be quite ordinary.
“So,
my dear, where does your interest lie? Certainly art and French, but perhaps
you want to branch off into other areas such as history, science, and philosophy.
Or would you rather stay with fiction, drama, and poetry—or something else
perhaps? What are you looking for, Christine? You are here because you are
looking for something you already have in mind, yes?”
All
the questions made me dizzy and I found myself standing before him smiling
dumbly and feeling embarrassed. It was as if Mr. Sage saw me as a lost soul in
need of saving. But then he sensed my confusion.
“Let’s
explore, Christine,” he said and began to lead me down the aisle of shelves that
reached to the ceiling. “Young ladies often enjoy reading novels. For example,
the Brontë sisters have written two very fine novels—Jane Eyre and Wuthering
Heights. Have you read either one?”
“No,
I’m sorry I haven’t,” strangely feeling guilty that I hadn’t.
He
put his hand to his cheeks and said, “Oh my dear, you haven’t read anything at
all if you haven’t read at least one of these. There is also George Eliot’s Silas Marner, a lovely little book, and
her Middlemarch. The heroine,
Dorothea Brooke, reminds me of you, though I hardly know you. She is young and
seeking.” I had to smile even though I thought he was being a little presumptuous.
“How
do you know I am seeking something, Mr. Sage?”
“Because
you are young, my dear. It is the nature of youth to seek, and that’s as it
should be. Are you familiar with George Eliot?”
“No
I’m not.” I was beginning to feel horribly ignorant and began to wonder whether
this was an ordeal Mr. Rieneau had devised for me.
Once
again apparently sensing my discomfort, he said, “Well, you certainly have a
lot of good reading to look forward to.” He then smiled, turned, and began selecting
books from the shelves and gathered them under his arms. “You mustn’t wait. If
you don’t begin now to read these books, you will never read them. And every week
you wait will be another book you’ll never read. You would like Miss Eliot. She
was a rebel like yourself.”
“How
do you know I’m a rebel. Do I look like a rebel?”
“No
you don’t, but you’re here looking for books because you’re looking for
answers, perhaps wisdom, and you would not be in this store if you were already
content with what you know. Secondhand bookshops attract a unique clientele, a
vanishing breed of seekers. Young people like yourself come to such stores because
they exist on the outskirts of mainstream society. Even the locals who drop by
to say hello but rarely buy a book are outsiders. Most the people who live in this
neighborhood are outsiders. If you were just another casual reader, you’d be at
Crown Books, Barnes and Noble, or Waldenbooks at one of the shopping centers where
you would have gone to shop and perhaps have lunch. Instead you came downtown
to my modest, unadorned bookstore. Besides, like those of my esteemed
colleagues, my books are secondhand, worn, discolored, but cheap and many not
to be found elsewhere because they are out of print. These are the books
preferred by young intellectuals living in garrets and efficiencies. Besides,
you do not seem to be a Southern California girl to me. You are a stranger
here. And you said you came to my store because Mr. Rieneau advised you to come.
Men like Mr. Rieneau do not attract conformists or those who are content with
what society has taught them. Buddha, Lao Tzu, Jesus, Socrates—all favorites of
Mr. Rieneau—attracted those who for various reasons rebelled from the societal norm,
from the Metro, boulot, dodo of
everyday life. They sought a different understanding or a different way of
living than that of the multitude. Am I correct, Christine?”
“Yes
you are, Mr. Sage. I’m impressed that you would know all that.”
“It
was just a hunch. An old man’s intuition. So, where should your literary quest
begin? You could begin at the beginning, if you are really serious—that would
be the Epic of Gilgamesh, written
over four-thousand years ago. It’s a Sumerian story about the famous hero
Gilgamesh. It is famous for containing the story of the great flood found in
the Bible. It is a somber story of human greatness and tragedy of human
striving and pridefulness. Like humanity today Gilgamesh is curious, restless,
and constantly seeking new challenges. The Universe is capricious, at times bearing
gifts, other times bringing harm. When his friend Enkidu dies Gilgamesh becomes
painfully aware of his own mortality and seeks some way to find immortality. It
is interesting that his friend had been an animal before he became human. He
later regrets his metamorphosis because he was happier as an animal. Like
humans animals suffer and die, but unlike humans they avoid the suffering that comes
with the knowledge of suffering and death. And unlike the hero Gilgamesh, they
are satisfied with their lot in life. Oh yes, the story is also very much about
friendship, without which the poem seems to say life would be unbearable,
though it also seems to say that the death of loved ones makes it unbearable.”
“Why’s
that?”
“In
the story Gilgamesh never recovers from the death of his friend. Perhaps that
is because then friends were allies in life. One couldn’t rely on the gods
because they were unpredictable and fickle. One of the achievements of
Christianity was to transform God into a friend who wouldn’t die.”
“Jesus,
who dies but doesn’t abandon us.”
And
then Mr. Sage recited, “What
a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear! In his arms he'll
take and shield thee; thou wilt find a solace there.”
“That’s nice.”
“You should hear Mahalia
Jackson sing it. When she sings it, it’s more than nice. It’s magnificent.”
“Are you religious, Mr. Sage?”
He chuckled.
“You are a curious young lady.
I still attend church on Sunday.”
“But that doesn’t answer my
question, does it?”
“Let’s say, Christine, that I
still dwell in the mystery of faith. I know what you’re thinking.”
“What I’m I thinking?”
“You are comparing me with that
old pier fisherman. I know that Mr. Rieneau doesn’t have much use for
Christianity, but I also know that he hasn’t given up on living a spiritual
life. Am I right?”
“Yes you are.”
“Did you ever attend church,
Christine?”
“Yes, growing up.”
“Do you remember being moved by
some of those spiritual songs?”
“Yes.”
“Wherever your intellectual
journey takes you, you don’t want to lose the ability to feel that way about
life. If that ever happens, you will no longer be living.”
“Because I’ll be dead inside?”
“Yes. It’s interesting to note
the sadness in the song What a friend we
have in Jesus. It is the same sadness found in the Epic
of Gilgamesh.
Isn’t it interesting that Jesus doesn’t make the sadness go away. Why is that,
do you think?”
“Because
Jesus doesn’t prevent suffering and death. Life is still sad. To me Jesus only
offers hope that there is more to life.”
“Very
good. You are a smart girl. Has Mr. Rieneau told you that?”
“Yes.”
He smile.
“I
knew he had. You know, Christine, the great thing about Christianity is that it
recognizes the sadness of life. Both Jesus and Mary suffer. Even God suffers.
It is a religion that at its very heart sympathizes with the suffering of
humanity, all things really. In that respect it is a great religion.”
“I see. And that’s what the Epic
of Gilgamesh is
about, human suffering?”
“Yes,
how it’s unavoidable but also how we often bring it upon ourselves.”
“That’s
sounds really interesting. Should I begin at the beginning then?”
“You
certainly could. It’s not long. And I think you would enjoy the story if you
like Homer’s stories. Did you read either The
Iliad or The Odyssey in school?”
“I
know the stories. We read a book on mythology in the ninth grade that had some
selections from Homer, but that’s about it.”
“That’s
not enough. I’m sorry. Homer is Greece’s greatest storyteller. Oh what a shame,
Christine. You simply haven’t read anything! But I don’t blame you. I’m afraid
you were cheated. But you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Obviously
your soul longs for nourishment, and we shall feed it.”
“Mr.
Sage, I know I’m horribly ignorant about books, and I wish to begin reading as
soon as possible, but perhaps you could recommend something along the line of
what Mr. Rieneau reads.”
“Ah
yes, I see you respect that old man of the sea.”
“Yes
I do. Occasionally he and I spend time together talking about things, and I
have become interested in his ideas and would like to pursue them on my own if
possible. He has mentioned books, but I would like some additional guidance
from you.”
“From
me. I see. The old seaman thinks I would be a better rudder than himself. Ha!
He’s a strange old bird but a wise one.” As I watch Mr. Sage I thought he too
was a strange old bird who lived in a cage. I wondered if he had any life
outside his bookstore. Judging by his appearance, I thought probably not.
“It’s
been a while since I’ve seen Mr. Rieneau. I suppose he’s reading less these
days. But when he visited my store, we would always spend an hour or two
discussing books, right over there at my desk. He’s not much of a tea drinker
but he enjoyed the ceremony. I can tell you that he has done his reading. When
he was still going to sea, he’d visit to buy books for a voyage, always willing
to spend an hour or so in conversation. I never saw Mr. Rieneau in a hurry. An
unhurried voyager is how I think of him. Perhaps he learned that from being at
sea—patience. It is not an unwise way to live, to pass one’s life as if on a
ship at sea, slowly and observantly.”
“It’s
true. He is like an old tortoise living in a society of hares.”
“That’s
right. Do you know the fable.”
“Yes.
It’s one of Aesop’s fables.”
“Ah,
I think you know more than you think you do. Tell me the moral of the fable.”
“I’m
not sure now. The hare seems overly confident. He makes fun of the slow moving
tortoise and thinks he can take a nap during the race, which allowed the
tortoise to win.”
“Yes,
but then the question is what is winning the race?”
“I
don’t know.”
“I
don’t either, but I image that since the hare is either speeding or sleeping
that he really never fully experiences life. Mr. Rieneau has not only lived a
varied life but it seems to me that he has paid close attention the living of
it. Perhaps what distinguishes most the tortoise from the hare is that the
tortoise doesn’t see life as a race with a finishing line.”
“That
reminds me of the way the French approach food. They appreciate every bite and
will discuss the food and other topics during a meal. So they will spend two
hours eating a meal that Americans will finish in twenty minutes and then be on
their way.”
“That’s
it exactly—being appreciatively in the moment. Americans are a practical people—very
goal oriented. Spending too much time conversing or at the table is wasting
time, time that could be used... well doing something practical. I think that’s
one reason they are not great readers. Reading is a passive activity that takes
too much time. Thus it’s seen as nonproductive unless what is read is a how-to
book or a set of instructions. The French are like the Italians, they work to
live, whereas Americans live to work. Working is not a bad thing, but can
greatly narrow one’s experience of life if that’s all one does and thinks
about. Mr. Rieneau has worked all his life, but his experience, understanding,
and appreciation of life have been both attentive and varied.”
“He
is very observant. He once said a sweeper of sidewalks could live a fulfilled
life if he is a one with his work.”
“What
do you think he meant by that?”
“The
sweeper is at one with life, whereas an observer simply observes, thus remains
an outsider.”
“That
sounds like the old seaman. What do you think?”
“In
a bigger way, my father is like the sweeper. He’s at one with his work. He
doesn’t read books or think deeply about life in the way Mr. Rieneau does. He
never went to college. But I would say my father lives in a state of what I
would call appreciative wakefulness, actually idea I got from Mr. Rieneau.
However, my father would not be satisfied with being a sweeper of sidewalks
because he becomes fully awake only when he leaves the city.”
“He’s
a man of the outdoors.”
“Completely.
And I think I’m like him.”
“A
girl of the outdoors.”
“I
think so.”
“Then
you haven’t adjusted to San Diego.”
“I
find the city a little overwhelming. But I live in Pacific Beach. So I visit
the ocean when I need open space.”
“I
can see why you’re attracted to the old seaman. Did you know that he lives on a
boat, an old trawler? I’ve seen it. It very comfortable.”
“Yes
he told me, but I’ve never seen the boat.”
“Do
so if you have the chance. He invited me to visit him after I once told him I
had never been on a boat. He couldn’t believe it. We sat outside at the back of
the boat and talked and smoked. I had quit smoking then but he said he had some
cigarettes if I wanted to smoke. I couldn’t resist. He gave me a tour of the
boat and then we sat and talked until the sun went down. The old seaman never
really left the sea or his boats. Does the old seaman still smoke his pipe?”
“Yes,
on the pier, but he puts it away when we talk. I really don’t the smoke. I like
the smell of pipe tobacco. It’s like the smell of bacon frying or coffee
percolating or freshly cut grass.”
“Well
good for him. I had to give it up. The thing about getting old is you have to
give up certain pleasures like drinking and smoking if you want to continue to
get older, though I was never a drinker. I’ve known a few men who thought the
price was too high.”
“And
what happened to them?”
“Oh
they’re gone. I’ve outlived some of them by twenty years.”
“That’s
sad... I don’t mean your living so long but losing friends.”
“But
here I am talking with you. And I’m glad to know Mr. Rieneau is still puffing
on his pipe in the evening, perhaps sitting where we sat that day, looking out
over all the boats in the harbor. It’s a pretty sight.”
“And
he’d be thinking.”
“Oh
yes. Thinking and remembering. I’m sure he has a lot to remember. I do a lot of
that myself. It comes with age.”
“What
would you two talk about?”
“He’d
want to talk about what he had read, and I would want to hear about his
travels. You can see that I am pretty much an armchair traveler. From our
conversations and the books he bought I was able to determine his particular interests.
I myself enjoy all sorts of books, though I have a special fondness for
westerns, detective stories, mysteries, genre fiction. Mr. Rieneau’s tastes
might be called metaphysical. He is well read in philosophy. He began with
ancients, Plato, Aristotle, Lucretius, Marcus
Aurelius, and others and journeyed his way to modern philosophy, where I
think he found his philosophical home. Great, ponderous philosophical works
such as Schopenhauer’s The World as Will
and Idea, Nietzsche’s Will to Power...”
“Wait
a minute, Mr. Sage,” I said. “I would like to write down some of this
information.”
“Of
course,” he said walking back to his desk and taking out a small white notepad.
“Use this, and here’s a pencil.”
“I
have a pen, but I could use the pad.”
“You
may keep the pad. I bought a package of three at the 99 cents store a few
months ago. I’m still on the first.”
“Thank
you. I’m ready now,” I said scribbling down the titles he had mentioned.
“Would
you like me to repeat the titles I just mentioned?”
“No,
no. I’ve got them. The names may not be spelled correctly, but I have the
titles.”
“I
was just about to add Martin Heidegger’s Being
and Time, one of the most difficult books you will ever read. In fact, I
think of it as philosophical poetry, and the only way you can read it is to
ignore what you don’t understand and take what you do understand. If nothing
else, the book inspires the intellectual’s imagination. A similar work is
Jean-Paul Sartre’s Being and Nothingness.
Not an easy book. I once asked if he enjoyed such books. He said they were like digging for gold, lots of
unpleasant work and then a priceless nugget that made the work worthwhile. He
also liked the writings of the great skeptical philosophers, such as Bacon,
Hobbes, Hume, Immanuel Kant, and A.J. Ayer. He said of Ayer’s Language, Truth and Logic that he was
amazed that such a small book could cause so much damage to the foundations of two-thousand
years of Western Civilization. ‘It is small,’ he said, ‘but like a torpedo that
could sink a battleship.’ So you can see why he would not recommend such books
to you. Perhaps Mr. Rieneau believes that you should wait a few years before embarking
upon a journey of skepticism.”
“What
did he mean by damage to the foundations of Western Civilization?”
“Foundationalism is the belief that there
is a set of fundamental truths upon which all knowledge rests, and one of the
goals of Western Civilization has been to discover those basic truths.”
“I
remember Mr. Rieneau’s saying about Ayer that he believed such truths are
impossible when it comes to knowing what is right or wrong, beautiful or ugly,
and whether or not there are spiritual beings like God, souls, and angels. I
guess that would mean that in those cases there is no truth only... What?”
“Uncertainty.
I see you’ve already covered a lot of ground with the old fisherman. And it not
just in philosophy that the belief in finding a set of indubitable truths that
can serve as a foundation for the house of knowledge has come into question.
Even science has conceded that such fundamental knowledge may be out of reach.”
“So
then what are we left with?”
“Probabilities
in science and in the areas you mentioned probably continuing disagreement or
perhaps some sort of compromise.”
“You
mean like atheists and believers agreeing to disagree?”
“Yes,
and the same would be true from believers as well since religion is where
people seem to disagree the most and most strongly.”
“What
difference would that make if I read those books? I don’t understand?”
“Christine,
I’m an optimist, in the original sense of the word. I am not like Pangloss in
Voltaire’s great novel Candide, who
sees some good served in every evil, nor am I an optimist in the sense that I
believe eventually everything ill turns out for the better. If one knows
anything about science or history, one knows that rarely happens. To believe
that, one must make a leap of faith and believe that at the center of all
things there resides a beneficent, all-powerful God who will ensure that the
evils that have occurred throughout history to humans and animals serve some
greater future good.”
“You
sound a little like Mr. Rieneau.”
“Only
a little, because like I said I am an optimist or at least try to be. Perhaps
it’s because the books we’ve read have taken us to similar destinations.”
“The
truth, you mean?”
“Oh
the truth! There’s that word again. I like to think that we can arrive at a
better understanding of things. The truth sound too much like a final
destination—the end of the line so to speak.”
“So
you think we never arrive?”
“Did
Mr. Rieneau ever tell you his story about an elephant?”
“He
told me about Pygmies considering elephants as a wise person-like creatures.”
“On
the whole, I believe elephants are wiser than humans. Humans have more
knowledge and wisdom but continue to live less wisely.”
“So
what about Mr. Rieneau’s story about an elephant?”
“I
should let him tell it. I know he’d love to tell you the story.”
“That’s
not fair. You’ve let the cat out of the bag, so I want to hear story. Besides,
if you don’t tell me the story I’ll have to asked Mr. Rieneau to tell me the
story about an elephant that you mentioned but wouldn’t tell me because you thought
he should tell me the story. That would sound kind of weird, wouldn’t it?”
“Okay,
you win. You are persistent.”
“Now
you sound like my mother.”
“I
certainly don’t want that. He said the truth is like an elephant and we ride
upon it like fleas. Each flea has its own perspective but cannot perceive the
whole of the elephant. Books are shared knowledge. If each flea wrote a book
about its perspective, then all the perspectives could be collected in a
library, and by reading those books each flea would get a larger perspective of
the whole of the elephant, though it would take a very long time to create a
complete picture of the elephant. It’s a little like trying to know the story
of the Universe and our place in it. As soon as books were being written our
knowledge began to increase rapidly. Still, there are those remote regions of
space and time that that remain unexplored.”
“But
unlike an elephant it continues to get bigger and bigger.”
“Yes,
even changing its shape.”
“That’s
funny. I like that story and very much feel like a flea in need of books even
if they can’t tell me everything I’d like to know.” He smiled at my comparison.
“In
no way are you a flea, Christine. I sense you know a great deal more than you let
on, more than what books alone can teach. I can tell simply by your use of the
language that you are well educated. And you have two languages and have studied
art where much wisdom is to be found. So you’re hardly an uninformed orphan who
has shown up on doorstep.”
“I
want to read. I want to know more about the elephant. You mentioned evil being
a part of animal life. I want to understand evil. What did you mean?”
“Consider
those poor chickens and dogs owned by men—since it’s hardly something women
would enjoy—who use them cockfights and dogfights. I consider such people evil
because they enjoy watching animals suffer. That anyone can consider another
creature’s suffering a form of entertainment is beyond my understanding. Perhaps
the greater lesson to be learned from such people is that humans are capable of
enjoying human suffering, one of the most famous examples being the
gladiatorial games of Rome. Such behavior, unfortunately, isn’t contrary to
human nature.”
“Because
it’s part of human nature?”
“Yes.”
“And
you’re an optimist?”
“I
said I try to be. I don’t find being a pessimist an appealing way to live.
Besides, look at you, a beautiful young woman here in this dreary bookstore
because she want to read books. That gives me every reason to be optimistic.
But concerning the question of evil and animal life, what I was actually
thinking of are the great mass extinctions that have occurred. For example,
about sixty-five million years ago fifty percent of the earth’s species were
destroyed. That indomitable optimist Mr. Pangloss would say that the
destruction of the dinosaurs made room for human evolution, and he would be
right. Nevertheless, for the species that became extinct the event was evil.
And truly, dinosaurs were a marvel.”
“But
no one was to blame.”
“So
it wasn’t evil in a moral sense, but in the sense of causing great suffering
and harm. However, today scientists believe that the earth is undergoing a new
mass extinction, this one caused by man. If that’s true, then the extinction
may be evil in both senses of the word.”
“That’s
depressing.”
“Did
Mr. Rieneau ever tell you that the truth is sometimes depressing?”
“All
the time.”
“And
perhaps that’s why he didn’t want you to begin your journey with books that
examine, let us say, the darker side of the truth.”
“But
you’ve read a lot of books and have remained an optimist.”
“That’s
because I see mostly good in everything I encounter each day, such as you and I
having this conversation. I take the bus to work. The route is always the same,
but I find remarkable all that I see each and every day.”
“Because
life is remarkable. Perhaps both you and the street sweeper have found the
secret to living simply yet meaningfully.”
“Did
you learn that for the old seaman?”
“In
part, yes. Still, I think the idea was always within me, but recent experiences
have made me more aware of it.”
“As
we should be. We are more fortunate than most people in the world, but the
goodness in my life makes me hopeful. However, I’m not sure that would have
been the case had I developed an overly critical view of life when I was
younger. I believe this is true for Mr. Rieneau as well. What I’m trying to say
is that Mr. Rieneau and myself see life as a blessing despite the deficiencies
and evils that compromise the glory of each day, that is found, in fact, just
outside my store. Perhaps the greatest works that deal with the existence of
suffering are to be found in the Bible: the Book of Job and Ecclesiastes. The knowledge
and experience of suffering can be overwhelming and discouraging. Yet,
suffering, as Buddha explained, is part of the very truth of existence, and I
might add that Mr. Rieneau became increasingly interested in Eastern philosophy
and poetry. I recall his buying a couple of books on Chinese landscape painting
because, as he put it, he wanted to see what the world looked like through the
eyes of Taoists and Zen Buddhists. His interest in art has always been philosophical
in that way. Is that true for you as well, seeing the world through the eyes of
the artists?”
“Yes,
in a way. Still, if you don’t know the ideas it’s hard to find them in the art.
If you didn’t know something about Taoism and Buddhism those landscape
paintings wouldn’t mean the same thing. I took humanities courses that
discussed art in that way. But... I don’t know. The ideas didn’t really sink in.
But Mr. Rieneau has helped me to understand art philosophically.”
“I’m
not surprised. And now you do. We often overlook something even though it’s there
before us. And often we don’t see it because we don’t need to. For example,
people usually don’t pay attention to the dark until they hear a suspicious
sound. Suddenly their mind awakens and the darkness and every little sound is
meaningful. Why is that?”
“Because
they want to know what’s going on.”
“That’s
right. What I’m trying to say is that if you pay attention to your perception
you will notice that you can pay attention to only one thing at a time. The
mind is intentional in its operation.”
“What
does that mean?”
“The
mind always tends toward an single object, real or imaginary. All else recedes
to the background.”
“Like
a flashlight in a dark room.”
“Exactly.
You’re a smart girl, Christine. For the mind, however, the darkness is not the
absence of light but more like an area mental indifference. If you’re looking
for your keys, you will ignore everything in the room that’s unrelated to the
keys. The point here is that the mind can be blind to things that are right
before it unless it has some reason for paying attention to them. I’m sure that
if you’ve been conversing with Mr. Rieneau that you’ve talked about a lot of
things that you’re already familiar with but simply didn’t pay attention to
before because you had no reason to.”
“That’s
been happening to me a lot lately. The mind is really strange.”
“It
is, and one of the strangest things about it is that it can know so much and
yet at any one time see so little. Your flashlight analogy is quite accurate.”
“Yeah,
but Mr. Rieneau and you obviously see more than I do with your mental
flashlights.”
“I
don’t think you can broaden the beam, though I’m no expert about this. But
there is no doubt in my mind that learning enables our mental flashlights to
bring into focus that which would otherwise remain out of focus. Language
itself gives the mind focus, enables it to shine on something that would have
otherwise remained before the individual but left unseen or out of focus. In
fact, language may be the light the illuminates. Without the knowledge of
Taoism and Zen Buddhism the reality of the Chinese landscape painting would not
be fully revealed. But then again, there must be a motivation to see something
in a certain way.”
“You
must be looking for something to see it.”
“Or
searching for something, yes. You know once I pull out into a street and a car
had to swerve to avoid me but the other car’s bumper struck my car’s bumper so
we pulled over. The other man was upset and angrily asked if I were blind. I
swore to him I looked before pulling out into the street but I just didn’t see
him. Then he told me that I wasn’t paying attention to what I saw, which means
that something can be in your field of vision and still go unseen. That episode
made a big impression on me. I thought about giving up driving altogether, but
that’s impossible here, though as I said, I do take the bus to work, but I was
doing that before the accident. I’m fortunate that most of what I need is
within walking distance.”
“That’s
true for me as well. Were you hurt?”
“No,
just shaken up. The only damage was two dents on my bumper. Nothing happened to
the other car. Fortunately, the driver was paying attention. And once he saw
that I was shaken by the event, he was very nice. Told me to have my eyes
checked but there was nothing wrong with my eyes. My mental flashlight was
simply pointed in a different direction even though my eyes were pointed in the
right direction, which is very dangerous in an automobile. The thing is you
lose confidence in yourself. I think that’s why most older people stop driving,
which is probably a good thing except here it means they’re pretty much trapped
in their homes. Do you know Meals on Wheels?”
“No.”
“It’s
a wonderful program that delivers meals to seniors who are homebound. I still
think it’s sad. I know there are cities where one is not dependent upon the
automobile. Paris is one. The elderly can still go grocery shopping because
there are those small stores... I forget the French word for them now.”
“Épiceries, you mean like 7-Elevens?”
“Yes,
that’s the word, but those stores are more like the local mom-and-pop grocery
stores that were common when I was young. They were like a supermarket squeezed
into a space about the size of my store. It’s a shame those have disappeared.
7-Elevens aren’t really groceries at all but convenience stores that sell mostly package items. Snack stores is
what they should be called. Personally I dislike them. They’re ugly. I dislike
chain restaurants as well.”
“I
work at Denny’s.”
“I
hope I didn’t offend you. Denny’s is fine.”
“You
don’t have to apologize. I understand.”
“It’s
just that everything is being mass produced, even businesses, next will be
people, which reminds me of the story Brave
New World by Aldous Huxley. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Well
good for you. The thing I find so disturbing about that society is that
everything has become standardized, even the people.”
“Yes,
I remember that, the Alphas, Betas, Gammas. Mr. Rieneau believes such places
exist today where people are all the same.”
“Does
he?”
“Yes.
He said religious and secular ideologies are templates used to create people all
the same. The shaping of people’s minds he called it. In the story the process
is biological engineering. Such places are dystopias, aren’t they.”
“A
society in which everything is controlled and mass produced, even the people, would
be dystopian to some degree. Yes.”
“That’s
why I loved living where I was surrounded by nature. There is so much variation
and... I don’t know how to express it. It’s a world that grows into existence
rather than being mass produced. There is so much duplication here. Everything
is organized and structured. It’s like that in Albuquerque though in a messier
way. You know my landlady just passed away.”
“I’m
sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah,
it was sad, but she was old. That doesn’t really make it better. She was so
full of life. But I was thinking just now of her garden. It was very tidy and
the flowers were separated in groups—like Alphas, Betas, and Gammas, except
they were roses, daffodils, geraniums, and hyacinths. The weird thing is that
both the flowers and people are organic. But they seem less organic in the in the
story because they are mass produced, which makes them artificial. Yet in
northern New Mexico you come across people, stores, restaurants that are organic,
natural in the way the plants and animals are because they came into being
naturally. They were created according to a template. But there too you have
chain stores and restaurants, like the 7-Elevens, McDonald’s, K-Marts. I find
them truly depressing, lifeless.”
“I’m
afraid standardization is the way our society is evolving today. It’s the
McDonaldization of everything.”
“That’s
an interesting way of putting it. Did you come up with that?”
“I
doubt it. I’m not an original thinker. I’m sure I read it somewhere.”
“Getting
back to reading then, so all these books are like mental flashlights... or
batteries to make a person’s flashlight stronger.”
“You
really like that metaphor.”
“Well,
you said it was a good one and it’s mine. Tell me how all these batteries
work?”
“Some
provide facts and theories so you can see with greater clarity and depth. Others
are more like the Chinese landscape paintings that enchant but also have
something to say if you know how to read them.”
“Like
novels.”
“Very
much so.”
“And
before we started talking about the mind being like a flashlight we were
talking about optimism and evil. We had shined our mental flashlights on those
ideas. I can see now how we can use our minds to illuminate the world around
that we would otherwise take for granted or not pay attention to except for
mundane things. But to really see the world a person has to open her mind to it
by taking an interest in it in the way I took an interest in what you were
saying about optimism and evil and was wondering how you can be an optimist in
a world full of evil. And your answer was that it’s not all evil. I see that,
but I don’t think some good is enough to make me an optimist.”
“Let
me ask you this. Do you think death is evil?”
“I
see where you are going with that. Yes, I guess I do.”
“And
to be fair to the optimist Pangloss he would say that yes death is evil but it
comes with life. Sure it would be great if people did not have to die, though
maybe it wouldn’t, but that’s the best the world has to offer—life with death.
Or would you prefer that neither existed?”
“Okay,
I get it. It’s either both or neither, so I choose both so we can continue our
conversation.”
“I
see you have a sense of humor, Christine. That’s an invaluable gift. If you
must be a pessimist, it’s better to be a pessimist with a sense of humor.
Getting back to Pangloss. He is able to accept evil because there is a great
good that comes with it.”
“That’s
how Christians can accept evil, because they believe a greater good waits for
them?”
“Christianity
is a religion obsessed with evil, no doubt about that. Christians see it at
work everywhere. And without God and the promise of an afterlife most would
probably fall into a deep state of despair because once you’ve concluded the
world is a place of corruption, it’s difficult to see the good. It’s like your
flashlight. If your mental flashlight has been trained to see only evil, then
all you will see is evil. That could lead to madness. On the other hand, the Christian
philosopher Saint Augustine believed that evil does not exist except as an
imperfect good.”
“You
mean he didn’t believe that evil existed at all? That sounds nuts.”
“Well,
his problem was that he didn’t want God to be blamed for evil being in the
world since God theoretically had the power to create the world without evil.”
“That
sounds like playing with words just to avoid the issue.”
“Very
good. I see you Mr. Rieneau is making you into a philosopher. I think there was
a little of that going on, yes. Still, what is interesting about Saint
Augustine is that he does raise the question of perhaps evil isn’t real but
just the result of how we look at things.”
“He
sees the glass half full rather than half empty.”
“That’s
one way of putting it. The emptiness isn’t really there. Humans can always
imagine a more perfect this or that but doing so means projecting their
expectations upon the world and then seeing the unmet expectations as evil.”
“But
what about people. They do evil things all the time.”
“Yes,
but they don’t have to. The Garden of Eden was a perfect place and would have
remained perfect had Eve not decided to do her own thing.”
“I
don’t understand.”
“It’s
like this. A person has the choice to do good or not to do good. Evil then
becomes the absence of good, not something real in itself.”
“Do
you believe that evil isn’t real but just the absence of good?”
“I
believe evil does exist and cannot be explained away, but you see I’m not
interested in preserving God’s reputation as being all-powerful and all-good. I
believe he did the best job he could under the circumstances. For example, he
can’t get around the logical problem of giving humans freedom and expecting
them to behave like robots. Animals in a way are like the robots. They are, as
far as I know, not free. But God is free and wanted at least one species to be
free like him. Well, as it turns out they often misuse their freedom. So, tell
me, would you prefer to live in a perfect world of robots, you being one, where
people never do anything you don’t like, or live in a world of free beings, including
you, even though they often misuse their freedom?”
“Yeah,
I wouldn’t want to be a robot or live in a robot world. They wouldn’t be able
to think would they?”
“I
don’t think so, not in the way we do.”
“Because
being able to think is what enables us to be free.”
“Yes.
That is what Eve was doing in the Garden of Eden. In fact, the Serpent could be
interpreted as a personification of
Eve’s thinking.”
“So
you’re an optimist that believes evil is real. I don’t know. I see what you’re
saying about evil, but still don’t consider myself an optimist. Mr. Rieneau
doesn’t seem very optimistic either.”
“Mr.
Rieneau and I both agree that evil is real. Actually we agree on most things. The
difference between us is the effect this view has had on our temperament. I
have remained basically a cheerful man, and perhaps I have because such
questions as the nature of evil did not occupy my thinking until later in life.
During the war I was stationed right here in San Diego. My weapons were a
pencil and a typewriter. Mr. Rieneau saw the darker side of war. And as you
might know he lost his wife after just a few years of marriage. My life has
been free of tragedy. I do believe that Mr. Rieneau is a contented man but not
a happy one, and I suspect his concern is that if you are introduced to certain
books too early that you might end up with his temperament. And I’m certain he
doesn’t want to be the cause of your unhappiness because he is a thoroughly
decent man.”
“Do
you really think he should be worried about books making me unhappy?”
“I
am not sure. I don’t know your temperament. My concern would be your taking on
difficult books that require an experienced reader, and by that I mean a reader
of great patience and endurance, and as a result become a discouraged reader.
I, for one, derived very little pleasure from those books, but Mr. Rieneau and
I are of different temperaments and tastes. He is a seafarer and I am a
bookstore owner. I read to be entertained. Mr. Rieneau is a quester, in search
of the truth, I suppose. I’ve never been interested in pursuing the truth. I’m
more interested in the spectacle of life as it’s revealed in literature and in
literature itself as an art form. I love a well-written book.”
“I
understand what you mean. That’s how I’ve always enjoyed art. I was never
interested in it because I thought somehow it revealed the truth. But now I
think I have become a quester in search of the truth and want to understand art
in that way as well, though I have just begun my journey. And it’s not just
because of Mr. Rieneau.”
“I
see. Something to do with what has happened recently in your life.”
“It’s
weird how you know things.”
“Not
really. At this moment my store is empty, but I’ve met thousands of people
since I’ve worked here. And a bookstore like this, one that sells secondhand
books and is located in a depressed part of town, though the location wasn’t
always so dreary, such a store attracts a certain clientele. People whose lives
have gone smoothly don’t come here. They go to one of the bookstores at the
mall or La Jolla, which has a number of fine bookstores, one especially that
Mr. Rieneau used to visit quite often because of its large collection of
philosophical works.”
“What
is the store? Maybe I will pay a visit.”
“D.G.
Wills, the most famous bookstore this side of San Francisco. And there is
Wahrenbrock’s not far from here. San Diego has quite of few exceptional
bookstores that specialized in used books. But I’m afraid their days are
numbered, like many old things.”
“Don’t
be offended by what I’m about to say, but how can you be so involved with books
and have read so many and not have been seeking some truth?”
“Apparently,
my little explanation wasn’t sufficient. This time I will use a couple great
novels to illustrate what I mean. The first is Albert Camus’ The Stranger. You said you read Camus.
Was it The Stranger, his most famous
book?”
“No,
I read The Plague.”
“Excellent.
His second most famous book, though not a cheerful one, but nor is The Stranger. Existentialists are not
known for being an optimistic bunch. In any case, the protagonist of that
story, Monsieur Meursault, is a man who simply enjoys observing and
participating in this spectacle called life. Perhaps parade would be a more accurate term, since life passes by us like
time itself. Sometimes we join in. Other times we simply observe. One scene in
the story has always stayed with me. I believe it is Sunday and Meursault sits
on his balcony observing the parade of events in the street below. I forget if
he had a glass of wine. Being a Frenchman he should, but I do recall his
smoking cigarettes. And habit beloved by the French. You see Meursault lives on
the surface of life, at least in the earlier part of the story. He is both an
observer and a participant, and though he participates in life to a greater
degree than I have, he is not a man who seeks the big experiences, such as
climbing Mt. Everest or being a millionaire. In that sense he is very much a
Frenchman. He enjoys the simple pleasures of life—food, drink, sex, a swim in
the sea, watching trees sway in an evening breeze and so on. His is a rudimentary
existence. And for that reason it is, ironically, a profound way of living
because it’s close to the fundamentals of life for a human being. Monsieur
Meursault does not ponder the nature of his existence, at least not until the
second half of the novel. I believe I’m like Meursault in that way. I simply
enjoy life’s parade, but Mr. Rieneau is more like Meursault in the second half
of the story where he begins to think philosophically about life.”
“Why
does he do it then?”
“Because
he is facing his death.”
“I
see, but you’re a little like Mr. Rieneau, like when you talk about living
closer to the fundamentals of life. That’s thinking philosophically, isn’t it?”
“Yes
it is, but only when carrying on a conversation about books and ideas, and
actually that rarely occurs. If you read enough, I’m afraid you can’t avoid
thinking philosophically. My point, however, is that I enjoy living on the
surface of life without thinking too much about it. I suppose that is also
reflected in my reading tastes. Mr. Rieneau, on the other hand, seeks to probe
beneath the surface of existence in order to understand what it’s all about.”
“Do
you think that’s because he’s old?”
“Apparently,
you haven’t taken a good look at me. We are about the same age, but I have
lived an easier life. No, Mr. Rieneau has been philosophically minded for a
very long time, and apparently you, Christine, are like him in that way. I
doubt either Mr. Rieneau or myself started thinking as you do when we were your
age. However, in some ways life was simpler then, or so it seems to me now. I
would very much like to have this conversation with you in forty years to know
how your quest for understanding turns out, but unfortunately I won’t be
around. Nevertheless, you have come to me for some advice on how to begin your
intellectual journey. So, for better or worse, I will do what I can by
recommending some books. Actually, I’m playing it safe by relying on great books
to advise you in the way they do. Great books cannot misguide.
“First
of all, let’s see if we can find a more hospitable avenue to the destination
you seek, which is, I presume, what Mr. Rieneau had in mind. There are great
works of fiction that might be called philosophical novels, whose themes
parallel those of the weightier works of philosophy I mentioned. These novels,
however, are more enjoyable to read and are less likely to kill your budding interest
in books than the weighty treaties of philosophy. Nevertheless, the themes in
these books are sufficiently modern and profound, though a bit too dark for my
taste.”
“The Stranger would be one that I would
like to read since you’ve introduced it to me.”
“Of
course. You can put it on your list. And now let’s do a little exploring.”
“Of
books Mr. Rieneau would be familiar with, yes?”
“Yes
indeed, Christine. In fiction, I should consider them his favorites.”
“Oh
good. So what are they?” I asked eagerly.
“Some
of them are the great novels of the 19th century. Let’s select five
or six authors in chronological order.” Having said this he began going
directly to the books he sought. They are his children, I thought. He knew
their names and whereabouts by heart. I asked him how he could remember exactly
what Mr. Rieneau had read after so many years.
“Oh
I remember, but you must understand that Mr. Rieneau, though unusual, is not
unique. There are others like him who share his frame of mind and tastes in reading.
Such readers are drawn to the Russian writers of the last century. Certainly,
Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons would be
on Mr. Rieneau’s list. It’s a good philosophical work of fiction to begin with.
After it you would want to read something by Mr. Turgenev’s great
contemporaries Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. Anna
Karenina, Tolstoy’s great novel of passion and philosophy considered one of
the greatest novels ever written. And Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Brothers
Karamozov are great explorations of the human soul. I can confidently say that
they are three favorites of your friend, the seaman. Then there are the German
writers who, in their own way, are as great as the Russians, but considerably
more dark in their explorations of the human condition. Franz Kafka’s The Trial and The Castle are works that Mr. Rieneau would highly recommend to
anyone sharing his…well his rather dark metaphysical curiosity, let’s say.
However, I must warn you that these works offer the reader a rocky, serpentine
path to follow. It might be said that reading Kafka’s novels is a little like
pushing a boulder uphill. It gets harder as one reaches the top, if one ever
does. Nevertheless, Kafka’s books probably will bring you closest to the
thinking of Mr. Rieneau—if that is your desire. There is also Thomas Mann whose
works Buddenbrooks and The Magic Mountain explore modern life
as if it were a disease. There are powerful similarities between the two
writers, but Mann is more accessible than Kafka.”
“I
don’t understand.”
“Yes,
of course, I’m being vague. Let me put it is way. Kafka explores the collapse
of metaphysical certainties that had sustained the Western Civilization for
over twenty centuries. This collapse gives rise to modernism, explored by Mann
as a disease afflicting Europe. The story The
Magic Mountain even takes place in a tuberculosis sanatorium.”
“That
sounds really interesting. Do you think I should I should read The Magic Mountain?”
“Of
course I do, but not just yet. In fact, I would first recommend that you read
some of the English writers, whose style is less obscure. And I believe the old
seaman would agree. For example, almost anything by Thomas Hardy can be recommended.
I recall that Mr. Rieneau had read Tess
of the D’Urbervilles and liked it so much that he returned and bought all the
Hardy titles I had on hand. Tess,
nevertheless, remained his favorite, and it would be the one I would recommend
reading first if you decide to explore Hardy’s fictional world. There is also
Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, a
gothic, metaphysical journey into the dark side of the human soul. Also,
something by Virginia Woolf would certainly be required. Mr. Rieneau paid me
only one visit during which he did not buy a book. He had just read To the Lighthouse and said he needed to
discuss the book with someone. I
was quite honored really.”
“Then
I must read that book. I’ve never read anything by her. I know only her name.”
“She’s
a marvelous writer. In her own way the equal of Shakespeare. Yes, I’m sure you
will find her writing fascinating but more mysterious, more metaphysical.”
“I
thought no writer was the equal of Shakespeare.”
“That
is most likely true given his plays cover so many different topics from so many
different perspectives, profound tragedies to playful comedies. He was a great
lover of life and that love of life is expressed in his plays and poetry.”
“And
Woolf?”
“She
too was a great lover of life, from smallest thing to the greatest. However,
whereas there is clarity to the writings of Shakespeare, the novels of Woolf
are wrapped in mystery. She presents life as a dark and magical mystery.”
“Do
you have a favorite of hers, Mr. Sage?”
“I
do. Mrs Dalloway. It’s a novel that
captures most beautifully magical mysteriousness of life. It is a celebration
of ordinary, everyday life, yet one haunted by the catastrophe of war.”
“The
foolishness of men.”
“Well
put. I would venture to say that you are a budding feminist, but I agree. I
said that during the war my only instruments were a pencil and a typewriter,
but I was stationed at convalescent hospital, writing reports on patients. It
was the most distressing time of my life. All that death and suffering of good
men brought about by evil men. So I felt very much at one with the story’s protagonist
Mrs Dalloway. One of her qualities that I believe you would be most interested
in is her aesthetic view of the world about her. The aesthetic character of
reality is usually overlooked except by artists. What Woolf reveals in Mrs Dalloway is that the aesthetic is
an inherent quality of the world we live in.”
“It’s
not just a matter of subjective interpretation?”
“What
do you think? You’re the artist.”
“I
guess I have to agree with Woolf. The beauty and ugliness I see in the world is
for me really there, not a projection of my subjectivity. My subjectivity
reveals it.”
“I’m
very impressed by what you just said. And what Virginia Woolf’s character Mrs
Dalloway is telling us is that the aesthetic quality of our world is everywhere
and is available to anyone who encourages their aesthetic awareness rather than
ignore it. If encouraged, it will reveal the world in a fabulous new dimension,
a revelation available only to humans. I’m sure that Mr. Rieneau has explained
to you that humans are quite unique in that they have an array of inherent
physical, emotional, and intellectual potentialities just waiting to be
realized.”
“He
has. And each one, such as love, can be realized in various ways.”
“And
such is true for aesthetic awareness as well. You would know that better than I.
Having studied art you’re aware of the various forms of artistic expression, each
one revealing a unique form of aesthetic perception.”
“Until
now, I’ve never given any thought to aesthetic awareness as a psychological
potential. I find Mr. Rieneau’s and now your ideas really fascinating.”
“Thank
you, but don’t allow your pursuit of knowledge to cause you to appreciate the
character of Mrs Dalloway just for the
ideas she represents. She must be appreciated as a person, a quite remarkable human
being.”
“Clearly
she’s a favorite of yours.”
“Yes.
I suppose because our experiences of life are similar. It is her nature is to
take a joyful approach to life yet World War One, truly an awful war for the
British, everyone really, darkened her worldview, resulting in her being
afflicted by an inescapable melancholy, against which she bravely struggles.”
“So
like you, she is by nature an optimist but the dark side of life has made it difficult
for her to remaining optimistic.”
“Yes,
but perhaps there is an interesting conundrum that occurs. I don’t see how she could
remain an optimist after almost a million mostly young men had been killed by
the war, and thousands of others mentally and physically damaged. Another word
must be found.”
“What
you’re saying is that though she really couldn’t be optimistic about life, she
wouldn’t allow her joyful appreciation of life to be defeated by the
foolishness of men.”
“Perhaps
that’s it. Certainly, the war is a profound disappointment to her, but foolish
men were its cause, not the world itself, not life, not the lives of ordinary
people, all of which she dearly loved. Her response to the foolishness of men was
not anger, as far as I can tell, but sadness, a haunting melancholy. But you’re
right. She refused to be defeated by it or by the horror of the war. The war
made her hypersensitive, but it’s her sensitivity that I appreciate most of
all. It’s the sensitivity of a thoroughly good person. And the tragedy of life
that tends to encourage pessimism is, more than anything else in life, the harm
caused by foolish men. The war was tragic because it was unnecessary.
“Well,
Christine, you can see how books can inspire. In a single character, Mrs Dalloway,
we discover in the denouement of human evolution one of its highest
achievements, aesthetic awareness struggling to endure the apparently
never-ending conflict between the Stone Age horror caused by men intellectually
and morally unqualified to rule nations and those aesthetically and morally
sensitive souls represented by the thoughtful, sensitive, loving Mrs Dalloway
all in a single day of her life.”
“That
amazing. Now I must read the book.”
“It
is amazing, and of course Mrs Dalloway isn’t really a fictional character but a
literary embodiment of her creator.”
“Virginia
Woolf”
“And
more than that if we look deeper into the story. From a historical perspective
Mrs Dalloway represent the Universe’s finest achievement—a sensitive mind
profoundly capable of appreciative awareness.”
“Appreciative
awareness is a phrase used by Mr. Rieneau.”
“From
whom I acquired the idea. I was curious if you had yet been introduced to it.
For Mr. Rieneau it is humanity’s highest achievement and is manifested in
various ways in human thought and culture, in philosophy, art, and science. And
clearly appreciative awareness is a central to your way of relating to the
world.”
“As
an artist?”
“As
a person. So what do you think? Should we continue our exploration of books or will the books we’ve
already discussed keep you busy for a while.”
“I
want to continue, but I will be sure to read Mrs Dalloway. Your discussion of the character makes me want to
know her. However, I’m a very fast reader and I don’t think you’ve mentioned
any Americans writers.”
“Well,
we must not leave out the Americans, for it is among them that we will find his
favorite novel of all time. He had a predilection for the American Naturalists.
They are writers who, like Mr. Rieneau, feel a great sympathy for the individual
assailed by the powerful and impersonal forces of life. I believe Theodore Dreiser’s
Sister Carrie is his favorite of
those books, or maybe it was his American
Tragedy. I also recall Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises as being among his favorites.” He stopped for a
moment and watched me writing the authors and titles on the tablet he gave me.
“Well
my dear, I can see you are a very serious girl indeed.” I looked up at him and
smiled.
“I
could go on, but I have already given you a year’s worth of reading, and I dare
say that if you read all of those books, you’ll have gotten closer to
understanding Mr. Rieneau.”
“More
like a month’s worth of reading. Like I said I’m a fast reader and sleep very
little.”
“My,
my, you really are intense about reading. I’m glad to see it, and I’ll say
nothing to discourage you, only don’t overdo it. Pace yourself. Get your sleep
and eat regularly. I want you to stay healthy. There’s more to life than just
reading. Okay?”
“Okay.”
It was strange to see him so concerned for a customer’s welfare.
“And
if you find the novels to your liking, you may later attempt the less
aesthetically satisfying but more complete philosophical examinations of what I
consider to be the overly dark and foreboding ideas of the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries that have so preoccupied Mr. Rieneau. Personally, however, I would
caution you to pay heed to Mr. Rieneau’s warning, and I hope I haven’t betrayed
his good sense and concern for your intellectual development by giving you so
complete a list of his favorite books. But I’m not going to dissuade anyone
from reading certain books. Unlike the Catholic Church I have no Index of
Forbidden Books, reminiscent of Eve being told not to acquire knowledge of good
and evil. To me, many books open the mind, which becomes closed only when it’s required
to rely on a single book. I, myself, have read all the works I’ve mentioned to
you, in part so that I can discuss ideas and books with customers like Mr.
Rieneau, who have passed through my store over the years. And I don’t think
they’ve harmed me in any way. To the contrary, I would feel deficient had I not
read them.” He paused, waiting, I guess for me to respond, but I was shamed by the
fact that I had read so little.
“Mr.
Sage, I must confess that I’ve read none of the books you’ve mentioned in high
school or college and am feeling pretty deficient at the moment.”
“My,
my, what do they teach today?” I thought his question was rhetorical but I
answered anyway.
“I
read two plays by Shakespeare, Romeo and
Juliet and Hamlet. Let’s see Huckleberry Finn, To Kill a Mockingbird John
Steinbeck’s The Pearl. The Scarlet Letter. Lord of the Flies. What else? Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl... And The
Great Gatsby. That’s all I can think of offhand. No, aah Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities.”
“Then
I’m reassured. Those are all wonderful stories, and I’m sure they were
complemented with a selection of equally fine poems. And as it turns out you
have already read two of Mr. Rieneau’s favorite books, Lord of the Flies and The
Great Gatsby. Huckleberry Finn would
probably fall into that category as well, but I don’t recall him mentioning it.
I have heard him speak of Charles Dickens Bleak
House and Hard Times. And Robert
Penn Warren’s All the King's Men and Steinbeck’s
great novel The Grapes of Wrath. Yes,
certainly that story. Normally, I don’t recommend movie versions of books, but
I will recommend John Ford’s movie. It’s heartbreaking, perhaps more so than
the book because it’s brought to life great actors. The marvelous Henry Fonda, the wonderful Jane
Darwell, and so many others famous long ago. My parents migrated here from
Oklahoma when I was a youngster. That was the old America. I miss it. Can’t
watch those old movies anymore. Too painful when they shouldn’t be. I will tell
you something I have never told anyone, and certainly not that ol’ stoical seabird Mr. Rieneau. I cried when I read that
story and when I watched the movie. On occasion, I’m deeply moved by what I
read and watch in movies. You needn’t tell Mr. Rieneau.” Mr. Sage smiled. I was
very touch by what he told me. What a wonderful old man, I thought. I could
feel the tears wanting to come to my eyes. Jesus, I thought, he and I are both
sentimentalists.
“I
sometimes cry when I watch movies, like Love
Story and even The Wizard of Oz.”
“You
and I are sensitive souls, Christine.
“We’re
sentimentalists, like Mrs Dalloway perhaps.”
“Yes,
I think so. And for that we can be grateful. Life is wasted on the callously dull-minded.
About the old seaman I suspect he too is sentimentalist beneath all his
intellectual barnacle. And I will tell you something. The Grapes of Wrath is a tragic story, yet you can read about such
things in the newspapers every day, but those stories don’t bring tears to your
eyes. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“They
lack the beauty and humanity found in great literature. It’s the artist that
makes us cry, not the facts. It’s the language that transforms facts into
heartfelt meanings.”
“That’s
true. I never thought of it that way.” I looked about at the books and said, “I
feel awfully ignorant, Mr. Sage.”
“Nonsense.
You are not ignorant. You’re young, and I’m certain that you are far wiser than
either I or Mr. Rieneau were when we were your age. Just consider the task you
have set for yourself, to be a seeker of truth, an explorer of the great works
of literary art, and already you have acquired an understanding of art. It’s an
uncommon task, a quest really that you have chosen to embark upon, one that illustrates
sagacity rather than ignorance.”
“Thanks.
I can use the encouragement.” He smiled. Such a strange man. He so much more
than his unremarkable appearance would suggest.
“Should
we continue our exploration or have you had enough for one day?”
“There
is one more thing. I’m wondering if Mr. Rieneau has a favorite book of a time and
if so is it among the ones you’ve already mentioned?”
“You’re
correct, Christine. There is one book that stands above the rest for the old
fisherman. I was remiss. No, I have not mentioned
it. It’s Moby-Dick. Not surprising considering his occupation and love of
the sea. I will not ask if you have read it. I know you haven’t read it. It’s
no longer read. Occasionally, it is bought, but rarely read. It is a foreboding
voyage that explores territories both inward and outward, a terrible yet
sublime journey. It begins in relative comfort but soon leaves all comfort
behind. If you read it right, it is a story that casts a sublime light upon the
world, like the marvelous aurora borealis, the cold, captivating lights that
illuminate the night skies of the northern hemisphere. Like its primordial
subject the leviathan, it is not an easy book to master. It speaks in mystical
signs and indefinite shadows and rare immensities. It seems to speak candidly,
but its deeper truths lie beneath the surface, just as in life. It is the
greatest mystery story of all time. So perhaps I am in agreement with Mr.
Rieneau about its accomplishment. However, Moby-Dick
is not an easy voyage, Christine. I recommend that you begin your journey with
one that strays not so far from home. Let eternity wait awhile. I could use a cup
of tea. How about you?”
“Yes,
I would love some, thank you,” I said, surprised by his hospitality, but also
thinking of the others who had offered me similar hospitality, Mrs. Henderson
and Robert.
Mr.
Sage had a hot plate on his desk and a small pot of water and two cups. I was
fascinated by this little man who lived in a world of books and yet was so
unlike Mr. Rieneau. While we drank our tea, we talked of other things “of a
less weighty nature,” such as the weather and the city. He had spent his entire
life in San Diego even during the war. He had worked for the previous owner of
the store, who sold it to him when he retired. Mr. Sage has worked in this same
bookstore for over thirty years! I said that it doesn’t seem to get much business.
Only one person had come in while I was there, said hello to Mr. Sage, browsed
then left.
“Business
has been declining for the past ten years. The downtown has changed. San Diego
used to have style in the fifties and even during the sixties though in a
somewhat different way. But the stylish people have pretty much moved elsewhere,
perhaps to retirement communities. It does seem style itself has gone out of
style. I say that because today people are different. They dress different. Levi’s,
tee-shirts, tennis shoes. You just didn’t see that when I first started working
here. The style of dress was classy even among teenagers.”
“Why
do you say style has gone out of style?”
“Of
course, style is a matter of taste. When I say style I think actors such as
Walter Pidgeon, Leslie Howard, and William Powel.”
“I’ve
never heard of any of them.”
“That
because they were of a different generation.”
“They’re
all men. What about women?”
“Women
used to be so stylish. They were inspired by actresses such as Deborah Kerr,
Elizabeth Taylor, Ingrid Bergman, Gene Tierney, and perhaps the classiest of them
all, Audrey Hepburn. You see them in the old movies on TV and they take your breath
away.”
“You
seem to love them, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I
don’t mind at all. I adore them, the actors and the actresses. You talk about
wanting to weep during the movie. Sometimes I feel that way just because... I
don’t know. It’s as if something truly grand has been lost to us. Anymore, I
rarely watch the old movies. Too heartbreaking. So I read and listen to music.”
“Because
they remind you of a world that is no more? A world that was once yours.”
“You
are both a smart and insightful girl, Christine. Yes, that’s it. When I think
about how everything has changed I sometimes become a little sad, sometimes
more than a little.”
“But
I thought you were an optimist.”
“In
the little things I am, such as your having paid my humble store a visit today.
Memories of the past come wrapped in nostalgia, not with regret but
gratefulness. I feel blessed and would not want to have lived at any other
time. Perhaps one simply gets attached to one’s own era. It is the era of one’s
family and friends and youthful experiences. I try not to dwell on the past
because I’ve outlived everyone I once cared about. So I focus on the little
things of the present. I get my hair cut next door. I’m a special client
because I knew the barbershop’s founder Ace Williams. He sang in a black barbershop
quartet. Sometimes when they rehearsed next door I would visit. I was always
welcomed.”
“Does
the quartet still exist?”
“No.
After Ace died the shop was sold a couple of times. The barbers there now are
young men who never met Ace. They specialize in stylish haircuts for black men,
very artistic haircuts. But they’ll do the old fashion haircuts as well for old
men like me. No barbershop quartet, but they kept the original barbershop pole,
though now it has to be brought inside each night because of vandals. That’s
how things have changed.”
“Well,
I’m glad I paid you a visit.”
“So
am I.”
“So
when did business start to change?”
“Gradually.
It changed gradually. I would say the sixties were the best years. By then I
sold only secondhand books. Young people came by often to browse and buy books.
They liked the old stores like mine and Burgett’s Books, Emerson’s and
Wahrenbrock’s better than the chain stores. Young people don’t read as much today.
They were really curious in the ‘60s until the end of the Vietnam War. But don’t
worry. I don’t need to make money. I have what I need. The store is paid for
and I’ve never been a big spender. I live near Hillcrest and each morning have
breakfast at the Hilltop Cafe. Then I take the bus to the store. I usually
don’t eat lunch. I told you I used to smoke, loved it. Not in the store of
course. I’d stand outside and watch the parade, but gave that up when my doctor
said that if didn’t quit soon I might want to consider whether I wanted to
donate my body to science. Don’t I have to die first? I asked him. Yeah, he
said, that’s what we’re talking about. I told him he was bullying me, but it
worked and I quit—except for that one time with the old seaman on his boat. I
drink more tea now, but it’s not the same.”
“You
could chew gum.”
“You’re
joking.”
“Yeah
I am. You’d look silly chewing gum. Have you ever thought about retiring?”
“And
then what would I do? Maybe if I were married and had grandkids. All I have is
the store and it gives me something to look forward to each day. I enjoy the
routine. And each week a few locals will drop by, as Mr. Rieneau once did,
except most of them just want to chat. Not really interested in buying books. Sometimes
I will recommend a book to someone and won’t even charge them, just tell them
to bring it back if they can’t get interested in it, or if they do pass it on
to a friend. I think books can have very interesting lives. Look at all these.
There are thousands and they have come to me from previous owners, maybe more
than one. I’m especially fascinated by the ones that were given as gifts and
signed by the giver who had read the book. They usually include the date, the thirties, forties, fifties, even earlier.
Christine, sometimes when I look at my books I see ghosts of those who read
them, gave them as gifts, and the authors who wrote them. In a way my store is
like a graveyard filled with ghosts.”
“Do
you tell all your customers that?”
“You
know, I don’t. You must be a special person, Christine. I bet people tell you things
that normally they would keep to themselves. I can see why Mr. Rieneau would
enjoy talking to you. I think you’ve cast a spell upon old seaman.”
“I
don’t know about that. I think maybe he has cast a spell on me. It is strange.
I never had these kinds of conversations much in the past. There has been one
person. I have always... I don’t know, been a loner I guess. Or maybe it’s
because I really never met people like you and Mr. Rieneau. I’m not sure.”
“Hmm.
I can see that you are a thinker.
“Like
Rodin’s statue?”
“I
don’t know. Perhaps. He’s obviously not mulling over a trivial matter.” Mr.
Sage’s face brighten.
“As
I recall he’s supposed to be sitting in front of the gates of Hell.”
“That’s
certainly not a trivial matter. And you’re right. He is supposed to be Dante,
contemplating the human condition perhaps. To me the statue symbolizes that
life is a serious matter and that we must think and choose wisely because once
it’s over it can’t be amended.”
“Amended?”
“Improved,
changed for the better. Our lives are like Rodin’s sculpture. When they are
completed it’s for better or worse. Rodin’s life, like the statue, turned out
for the better.”
“And
that must be why there’s a museum dedicated to him in Paris.”
“I
would think it would be an inspiration to visit.”
“I
visited it but was too young to understand what I was seeing.”
“You
will return to Paris. It’s unavoidable. And this time you will understand what
you’re seeing.”
“Why
do you think that?”
“Because
you are looking for something and Paris is part of that something. Some cities
are like great books that must be read. Paris is one of those.”
“And
San Diego?”
“No.
You’ve obviously found something here, something that has encouraged your
journey, but what you have found has little to do with the city itself. For
that, you must travel elsewhere.”
“To
Paris?”
“Yes.
I regret never having visited the city or others in Europe.”
“But
you can still go.”
“I
suppose. Let me say this, Christine. Some things are better done when you are
young. For you Europe could be an inspiration, as has been for many American
artists, but not for me. Inspiration is useless to an old man. I would simply
be an old tourist. Do you remember what I said about reading books?”
“You
mean every week I don’t read a book will be another book I’ll never read?”
“That’s
right. You are a very good student. I can see why Mr. Rieneau likes you. Life
is like a book but one you write rather than read. Some people’s lives are like
great books, Mr. Rieneau’s, for example. Others, are filled with mostly blank
pages or the same thing written over and over again.”
“Metro, boulot, dodo.”
“My
point exactly.”
“Do
you regret your life a little, Mr. Sage?”
“You’re
not one for idle talk, are you, Christine. Normally, I wouldn’t answer that
question, but I will tell you because apparently I’ve become a part of your
quest for understanding. Yes, I do. Not horribly. In many ways it has been a
perfect life, but I wish I had added to it when I had both the time and energy.
My mistake was thinking when I was younger that I needed more money in the
bank, and then when I was older there were responsibilities, such as my mother
and the job that needed my attention. But the truth is, waiting for the perfect
moment to do something can become an excuse for doing nothing. I never
graduated from college. I never married. I never visited Europe or even New
York. Yes, I should have done more. And I’m sure you will do more, Christine.”
“I
will. I promise,” I said. What he told me made me sad.
“Good.”
“Is
that why you give away books? To encourage people to read?” He looked at me for
a moment thinking over the question.
“Yes.
Books have been my salvation. They have enlarged a very small life. And I’m not
a creative person. I don’t think I could ever write a book and certainly not
carve a statue, but I can appreciate others who can and enable others to do the
same, if they are so inclined. You know the old proverb that you can lead a
horse to water...”
“But
you can’t make it drink if it doesn’t want to.”
“Yes.
These books are the water that I offer, and occasionally I give away books to
encourage the customer to drink.”
“That’s
no way to run a business, is it?”
“Of
course not, but sometimes you just want somebody to read a book.”
“Like
me?”
“Oh
no. No need to motivate you. I can see that.”
“I
think the advice and encouragement you give are as important as your books.”
“Thank
you, Christine. However, I don’t advise all my customs, only the ones like you
who have discovered something new that they want to know more about. We old-time
booksellers who run secondhand bookshops have spent our entire lives around
books. They are our children. We brag on them. I think we are a dying breed
like the cowboy. That reminds me, last week a man came in who wanted to read about
American Indians. I suggested that he would find a lot more information at the
library down the street. But no, he wanted some books that he could keep. So I
took him back to my small collection and showed him what I had. He was very
interested and ended up buying three books. That sale made my week. I quite
enjoy introducing people to books—like today.”
I
purchased two Russian novels that are favorites of Mr. Rieneau. And after what
Mr. Sage said about the Epic of Gilgamesh,
I had to have it as well. Not only is it mankind’s oldest surviving story but
the Penguin edition he selected had been translated by a woman scholar—N.K.
Sandars—who provided an introduction as long as the poem, which Mr. Sage said
was necessary because of the poem’s complicated history. All the books seem to
have lived long lives. The pages are slightly brownish at the edges but they cost
only a few dollars each. I liked that they are old and have already been read
by someone else. I spent a good two hours with Mr. Sage and paid only seven dollars
for three books that Mr. Sage said were priceless. I wonder if he’ll make only seven
dollars today. Kind of sad, really. He told me to let him know how I liked them
and that if I didn’t to bring them back and he would recommend something
different, something by Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters. I asked him what his
favorite books by those writers were.
“Mansfield Park by Austen and Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. The lives of the authors are remarkable as are
their books. Have you never read any of them?” Again I was ashamed to admit
that I had not but said I had seen old movies of the Brontë stories and told
him so, hoping he wouldn’t think me totally ignorant but expecting him to tell
me movies are no substitute for books. His response surprised me.
“If
what you saw were Jane Eyre starring
Joan Fontaine and Orson Wells and Wuthering
Heights starring Laurence Olivier and Estelle Merle O'Brien, you saw great adaptations of the stories,
exquisite movies. I know what you’re thinking—that I’m about to say but movies
are never adequate substitutes for the literature. And that is very true but
only because they are two different art forms, two different artistic
languages. Movies bring stories to life in ways the written work cannot, but
words speak more directly to the understanding. It’s the difference between speeding
through an enchanting forest in a convertible sports car and walking though the
same forest along a hidden path. The drive is more exciting but the walk is
more thoughtful and revealing. I love old movies, and would even say if you
can’t read the book then see a good movie version of it. Just don’t use movies
as an excuse for not reading the book. Besides, there are many great works of
literary art that simply cannot be translated to the big screen. For example,
one of the greatest movies of all time is Gone
with the Wind, but the movie lacks the depth and breadth of the novel.
Perhaps the one thing movies simply cannot do well is reveal the subjective
interior of characters. And many movies are travesties, such as the film
version of William Faulkner’s novel The
Sound and the Fury, one of the most enthralling novels ever written.”
“In what way?”
“Because as in Virginia Woolf’s novels it reveals
life as it truly is for human beings—a subjective reality. For example, in the
great tragedies of the Greeks and Shakespeare, the reader does not directly
experience the tragedy of the characters but only through their reaction to the
tragic events, expressed in what they do and say. But in The Sound and the Fury the reader becomes one with the character’s
subjectivity. It’s quite moving. I would even say miraculously so. Some novels
leave you shaken by what you’ve read. I believe The Sound and the Fury is one of those novels. Faulkner’s novels
are profound journeys into the human mind and heart. They do what movies cannot
do—or cannot do very well. I say that because I believe words are a more
intimate part of human subjectivity than are images. What we are inside is a
mixture of feelings and words, and that mixture determines our subjective
response to what occurs outside of us. Movies reveal characters’ personalities but
words reveal their souls.”
“Then perhaps I should have that novel as well.”
“Be patient, Christine. I’m certain that one day you
will have read all the novels I’ve mentioned. You don’t want to treat them as
items on a shopping list, but as friends. I tell you what. Woolf’s Mrs
Dalloway is an
excellent introduction to stream of consciousness. I will give you a copy. I
know you’re now curious about the novel. It will be a gift so you need not
return it if you wish to keep it. I have a copy that has been read but
otherwise in perfect condition. You may want to keep it because it’s worth
rereading. Still, you should read the books for enjoyment they give, not just
as you would for a class or even in order to better understand Mr. Rieneau’s worldview.
They should be treated as an end rather than a means.”
“I will enjoy for themselves. I promise. And I
appreciate you help with my reading project.?”
“How could not help you get started? You know from
my experience that journeys postpone are sometimes never taken. Yes, there are
times when I wish I had been a little more like Mr. Rieneau and seen some of
the world. But it’s not too late for you, Christine. And if that is the one
thing you have learned from me, then I’m satisfied that my failure to have
lived fully has been salvaged for perhaps a greater good.”
“Me!”
“Yes, you. Why not you? In fact, I would not be surprised
if the old fisherman feels the same. You see old people wish to pass on something of value to the
younger generation.”
“As
a way of achieving immortality?”
“It’s
obvious that you’ve been talking to Mr. Rieneau. No, that’s not it.”
“So
what is it?”
“You
are the most earnestly curious person I’ve ever met, and I think I see another
aspect of Mr. Rieneau’s concern. He wants you to discover some answers on your
own. So I shall refrain from answering that question. But remember, life is to
be lived, not just read about. Okay?”
“Okay—but
thank you for all your help.”
“Ah,
the answer to your question may be found there.”
“In
my gratitude?” He only smiled.
I
thanked Mr. Sage again for his time and guidance. On leaving the bookstore I
felt that the city had become livelier than when I had arrived. The sky was
bright blue and the air was brisk. However, I had been given a parking ticket, which
spoiled the moment, but only briefly. I drove to the Zanzibar coffee house on Garnet
and sat outside and drank a cup of coffee. It was as if I had begun some great
journey. I decided to begin reading Fathers
and Sons, but my thoughts kept returning to Mr. Sage and the what he told
me, that even at my young age I had not begun my journey among books a moment
too soon because a life-long passion for reading must be nurtured early in
one’s life by books themselves. Otherwise, books become like the family and old
friends we always intend to visit or write to but never do, until we discover
it’s too late. I thought about what he said about wishing he had travel and
lived more fully. He could still travel but it was true that it was too late
for other things. He’s a strange man, so cheerful and yet at times so solemn.
He is one of the most interesting people I have ever met, but I don’t want to
end up like him, regretting my life.
After
I finished my coffee and read a dozen pages, I went to the beach and walked
barefoot along the water’s edge. It was a perfect day. I cannot imagine any
better way to spend a day here. As always, my thoughts are with you, Ruth.
Love, Chrissie
