Among the many pleasures of working with students in a secondary school is discussing what books they are currently reading. Whether a student and I are discussing her first encounter with The Lord of the Rings trilogy and how much she is enjoying it or another student and I are debating whether high schools should teach Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, these conversations are enjoyable and energizing. The students are experiencing the thrill of reading J.R. Tolkien’s fantasy classic for the first time or arguing passionately that the racist language of Huck Finn should preclude its being taught to high school students; it’s affirming to watch them reading and developing opinions around these books.
Although I have the opportunity to have these talks often, I thought about the fortuitous nature of these conversations as I read an article in the New Yorker called “Shelf Life: Packing up my father-in-law’s library” by James Wood. I say fortuitous because I know what they are reading by looking at the covers of their books. Many years ago when my wife and I would go on beach vacations, she would tease me for being on “book patrol.” I would look at what total strangers were reading and would often stop to ask what they thought of the book in which they were absorbed. She may be relieved by the proliferation of e-books since now I don’t know what people are reading; consequently, I can’t quiz them about their reading choices. (My own reading on a Kindle at times can also prevent others from subjecting me to their own book patrol, and I will miss that equally.)
In his essay, Wood describes the act of disassembling a library and what one can learn about a person by viewing the books on one’s shelves. Wood states, “Libraries are always paradoxical: they are as personal as the collector, and at the same time are an ideal statement of knowledge that is impersonal, because it is universal, abstract, and so much larger than an individual life.” Very often, when we go to someone’s house, we look at the books on their shelves as a way to learn more about our hosts. Do we have common tastes? Do these books reaffirm what we know about this person, or do they contradict our perception? If we are what we eat, are we even more so what we read? If I know what you read, do I know you?
On a fundamental level, I rue the loss of these spontaneous book chats. Reading can be both a solitary act as well as a social opportunity. We read to escape our physical world, and we read to be with others. We join book groups to discuss our latest read; we check out blogs or listen to podcasts (I recommend the podcast Books on the Nightstand) to hear the thoughts of other people and get their recommendations. Discussing books enables us to engage with people we don’t know; more importantly, they enable us to build social capital with strangers. Like breaking bread, we are sharing in an experience, and we are bonding with one another.
I see some of our students reading off their Kindles, and on the one hand, I am happy for them that they have discovered an entirely new way to read. On the other hand, I am sad for them since they may not have the opportunity for their own form of book patrol. They may not have the immediate connection to someone who is reading or has read one of their favorites, and I feel sad for them. Maybe the most important reason to keep physical books around has nothing to do with reading them; maybe the primary purpose of an actual book is that it allows us to connect with others, and this is something that we desperately need in today’s world.
