buying orphans

Left the office early today. At about 6:10, I was out. Thought about dropping by a bookstore on my way home so I did.

I easily lose track of certain things when I am in a place that is full of books. Time, trivial concerns, whether I've eaten or not. I take my time looking at book titles. When it comes to books, I get very judgemental. If you've been a reader for quite some time, you have to know what works.

I skim through different pages, marvelling at how all these stories arrived here; wondering at how lucky I am to be able to witness their varied certainties. It only takes a few minutes for me to remember the stack of unread books I have at home. Funny, I feel unfaithful. And very greedy. I shrug the feeling off and promise myself that one of these days, I'll find the time and the courage to separate them from the ones I've already read. I know this is not true, or if it is, it'll happen in the very distant future.

I feel lonely for the books that are here; for the books that remain unsold or unused all over the world. Some time in December, he gave me a book about women who are not allowed to read Nabokov or Fitzgerald. My heart groans long and hard for these women. I know, though, that I am privileged to be where I am. At the very least, I have this kind of freedom. This, you realize. is not a mere lining, but a whole sky of promises that keeps me sane.

There are afternoons, when, looking at my stacked treasures, I feel as if I am adopting these books. I do not want to see them go to waste. I want to keep them here, where they can be read and appreciated. I do not know where they go if no one buys them in stores. This uncertainty gives me grief.

When I see a child reading, I feel so much hope for the world. I am not saying that everyone who is a reader turns out to be a good person. Books do not dictate who you become. But at least you will die saying that you know about something that is different from yourself. You may also find that you're not so different after all and it was good that you managed to read those 10 books that one summer that showed you that this was such.

Not that I'm saying that everyone who reads can already be saved from being ignorant of many things. But at least you will be able to fill up that reservoir of yours with something other than your own thoughts. Sometimes, you need other people's words to be able to feel more.

I left the bookstore after an hour, armed with other people's children to take home.

Then I remembered a dream I had the other night. The house was on fire. The house was on fire and my books were inside. I could not see them but when I closed my eyes, I imagined the flames licking all the sad, lonely worlds in them. The pages burn slowly, the edges would scroll, and then nothing. Only char, unnameable soot.