XXII
I
have to chuckle a little when I think about Mr. Sage who, apparently, lives
totally in his little world of books. Perhaps you have seen the painting by
Carl Spitzweg titled The Bookworm. I
can’t imagine a better illustration of our bibliophile. The bookworm is shown
standing on a stepladder surrounded by shelves of book. He holds a book in each
hand, one of which he is reading nearsightedly,
another one under his arm and still another between his legs. Like me, Mr. Sage
is a story dweller, except he has lived a thousand stories. In fact, the
bookworm in Spitzweg’s painting could be standing in Mr. Sage’s mind, which is
itself a mental library. As a disembodied spirit I find his bookish life a
little incredible. Given the opportunity, however, I would abandon the world of
books and enter into the real world where one breathes the cold, clean air of
morning and feels the flesh warmed by the sun. But I like this Mr. Sage,
nonetheless. He and I are cousins, in a way. He almost seems disembodied
himself, his flesh burned from his soul by a thousand books. And that cramped
little bookstore! I would image that it would be like living in a dusty,
dimly-lit cave.
Yet
it is a world, many worlds really. The little bookstore is like a galaxy filled
with thousands of new and strange worlds, each one waiting to be explored. So
Mr. Sage’s world is not so small after all, much larger than what most people
would imagine if they entered the store and saw Mr. Sage sitting at his tidy oak
teacher’s desk, reading one of his own volumes. My guess would be that he would
remind them of a little mouse sitting in its tiny hole in the wall, nibbling at
a bit of cheese, but I don’t believe such is the case at all. In fact, being a
story dweller myself, I think of Mr. Sage as a cosmic traveler, ranging through
space and time, exploring world after world just as if he really were a
disembodied spirit. One day he is marching with Caesar’s legions against the
rude warriors of ancient Britannia,
the next day journeying with Bashō along the narrow road north that leads to
spiritual enlightenment, and the day after that traveling to the edge of the
cosmos to visit the Star Maker and to look upon the face of God.
It
should be obvious by now that the interior of the bookstore is quite deceiving
to those who are not story dwellers. It is not a dead end as some would
believe, but a place of departure, like a train or bus station, better yet a
space-time portal, each book a journey and destination. Yes, Mr. Sage’s little
bookstore is not exactly what it appears to be. It is another world, or other
worlds, that Mr. Sage inhabits, another plane, if you will. I wouldn’t call it
a higher plane, but it is certainly a purer one. The air is thinner, but one
can see farther, and it is easier to travel about. That’s because books
actually do burn away the flesh and release the souls of readers, allowing them
to take wing like birds freed from their cages to explore the vast world of
human experience across the boundaries of time and space. It is the mind that
enables the individual to overcome confinement to a particular position in space
and time required by bodily existence, but the space and time of books are
infinite realms of the imagination that allow the souls of readers to roam
freely.
And
because books are written, the journey is always through the realm of mind,
someone else’s mind, that of a fellow traveler like you my good reader. Still,
though the journey is a mental one, spiritual if you like, it is no less hazardous
than traveling through the concrete world. I was about to say the real world,
but each possesses its own reality, and thus capable of harm. The hazards that
lurk in the realm of ideas differ from those of the concrete world. Mr. Rieneau
and Mr. Sage, both experienced explorers, have suggested that voyaging into the
darker regions of thought, the soul is exposed to conceptions that can cause it
to become dismayed and forlorn, devastated and heartbroken. Ideas, presented in
their pure form or cloaked in narrative, can buffet the soul, leaving the
individual dispirited. The resulting pain is no less real than a physical
wound. Consider the pain caused to body by death and disease, yet is it any
less severe than the spiritual pain caused by the soul’s understanding of the
meaning and significance of death and disease? You may recall Mr. Sage’s account of the
sorrow of Gilgamesh that resulted from the death of his friend—Enkidu. That sorrow was for himself as well.
Ironically,
it is not the cessation of one’s existence that is painful (since pain requires
one’s existence) but the contemplation of one’s own nonexistence and that of cherished
others. The idea cuts like a knife and leaves the individual feeling empty.
Could it be that those two old men, the fisherman and the bookseller, fear that
Christine, once having embarked upon her reading journey, may return to find
her world forever changed from the way it was before she left? Neither believes
she should forsake her quest for understanding but only to proceed cautiously. Having
reached that age when the body has grown weary but the mind is still active,
the old men know there is time enough later to meditate upon life’s meaning, a
time when the fullness of one’s own experience can serve as a promontory
providing a more complete view of that which one seeks to understand.
Being unable to leave my own world of words, I can’t say with certainty whether or not it is too soon for Christine to begin her intellectual voyage, or how much such a voyage will alter her view of life. I recall the innkeeper’s words to Gilgamesh:
Why are your cheeks emaciated,
your expression desolate!
Why is your heart so wretched,
your features so haggard!
Why is there such sadness deep
within you!
He
replied that the fate of mankind had overtaken his friend, and you would
probably agree that the felt-knowledge of death had overtaken Gilgamesh. I also
recall Mr. Rieneau’s mentioning Ecclesiastes, and perhaps he fears Christine
will become desolate like the preacher in that most famous work on the vanity
of existence, who says, “For in much
wisdom is much grief: and he
that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” I do know that Christine’s
experience in the corporeal world has already deeply changed her thinking, and
not in a happier way, and as a story dweller I know that as a reader she will
find the conceptual realities explored in books equally enchanting and
terrifying as those in the mundane world of earth and sky. It is not
unreasonable to ask whether she should embark on a new and different voyage at
the very time she struggles amid confusion caused by death and disease, not to
mention the feelings of betrayal and guilt she has brought with her from the
home-world she has fled. The question of when is the best time for Christine to
begin her intellectual voyage is not unreasonable, but I do not know the
answer. Perhaps this is the best time to begin given her earthly encounters
with death and dying. It seems needed now more than ever. How else is one to
make sense of the sorrow and perplexity that are so much a part of life if
faith is not an option? Acceptance through understanding seems to me the only
other way.
Mr.
Rieneau seems to want to keep Christine out of the world he has explored. Does
the old seaman fear the young woman will not be able to weather the storm? Hah!
Perhaps, I go too far. Mr. Sage, however, does seem to have greater faith in
Christine. He is cautious, but he will not deny her wings, he being a kind of
archangel welcomes any and all to his paradise built from words. He is a
reader, I mean a serious reader, and all serious readers know that those poor
souls not suited for the world of books will not be allowed to enter. Their
wings simply are not strong enough to take flight. Like chickens they flap
their feeble wings and briefly ascend a few feet above the ground, seeing barely
further than before. You accuse me of being flippant and condescending. It is
true, but it is also true that we admire the soaring eagle and belittle the
comical chicken whose sight never leaves the ground before it. Perhaps I am
biased by being a book dweller who can be brought to life only by a reader—one of
those whose soul soars upon words.
Yet
even those whose wings are strong enough to fly to higher altitudes of thought
will find at times the journey difficult, dark, and disorienting—but also that
the voyager never travels alone. There is always present the mind and the
spirit of the storyteller. Reading is always a shared journey. So I think there
is every reason to share Mr. Sage’s confidence that Christine is capable of the
literary journey she is about to begin. It will not be easy, but her wings are
strong and her soul is bright enough to illuminate any darkness that she might
encounter.
