Books I

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 19^th 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