Farenheit 451 has this chilling monologue about the burning of books, and how "They" will tell us how books are irrelevant, and that we don't need them. Books will corrupt our minds, and limit our thinking. I understand I am paraphrasing here, but Ray Bradbury writes it,I am sure, as a warning. A warning to be on guard. To guard our minds, and keep them strong. How does one do this, I wonder, with technology fighting to deaden our senses. Of course, it was written so long ago, and made quite a stir, at the time. If you were to ask anyone in the upcoming generations who Ray Bradbury is, I wouldn't be surprised if they responded (while taking out their ipod earbuds) "Oh yeah, isn't he a Rapper?"
Today, was a sad day. I was teaching an introduction to The Great Gatsby, and the students were thumbing through the dictionary to look up some words. F. Scott Fitzgerald uses language like none other, in my opinion. The words are like butter on the page, they melt into one another, and glisten. His language can get lost in translation, so I asked them to look up some of the words before we began. I heard one young man getting frustrated, as he was trying to figure out the alphabetical order of things. He turned to his friend, and commented how ridiculous dictionary's are. "Why can't we just use our phones?" he complained. The boys tangent for a minute, at how antiquated (of course they didn't use this word) the use of dictionary's are, and for that matter books.They even sort of pushed the big book, in a disregarding, haughty superior manner. They felt fervor, and I saw some sort of momentum building. It was, as if they were colluding about their own holocaust of pages, and bindings, and print. One turned toward me, and blurted out "Ms. O, when are we going to get rid of books?" As the other confirmed, "It's 2011."
For a few seconds I couldn't speak. I was stunned, and honestly, for a moment, however brief-I saw my old friend, Dictionary, looking rather large and uncool. He dwarfed the desk, and his pages seemed worn. Then, I felt sick, and ashamed at how quickly my betrayal happened..the thought of my first true love being thrown into oblivion, made me hot. I sat behind my desk, and pictured a world without Him. I turned to the boys, and simply said, "That makes me want to cry, and throw up at the same time." They laughed like bullies on a playground. They were describing a world of ebooks, and how simple it could be. They motioned a swift movement with their finger to their imaginary screen. Everyone smiling in their fantasy world of technology. I tried to explain the love one feels for the fresh new smell of the first edition. Picturing, as I spoke, the collection of hard covers that strewn my bookshelf, and wanting to explain the gift of the early editions. Falling asleep in a beach chair, and waking to the book softly laying on your chest. They were patronizing, and commented how maybe they'd give that one a try, but continued laughing and began finishing their work.
As they left me in the aftermath, I sat clutched to memory. How summer would come, and my mother and I would rush to the Book Stack for the newest Judy Blume. Sitting on my bed for hours, engrossed in the words, holding the cover, earmarking the pages. Rereading them, and highlighting the best sentences. I remember reading the dictionary before I would go to bed. I couldn't imagine, that someone like Webster, thought to compile all these amazing words, and put them in one place. I always pictured him as being the smartest man alive-not even knowing at the time if he was truly a man, or if it was just a name. I was lost in a world of language, and books became my paramore.
Wandering into college, to discover that I could spend a life analyzing, and reading, and get paid to do so. I remember feeling the tingle in my stomach at the thought of being an English major. Philosophising over the author's use of language, and how Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" was my first kiss, in the sense that he taught me that words, and the spinning of a sentence could move and seduce me. I would read him aloud to roommates, who amused me by listening to my zeal. I remember my first boyfriend becoming jealous of my latest find that would be clutched between my hands, taking up space in my mind, and body where he wanted to occupy. He would pose pretend conversations with me, and ask me ridiculous questions, as I would say "Uh huh, or Oh!" Pretending to listen. He would then reveal his frustration, and tell me that I just agreed to have my head shaved. There were even times that he would hide my books, and I would have to search. I was cheating on him, and my lover smelled of pressed ink, and filled me like no other.
Then later in life, after marriage and kids, my favorite past time was reading to my girls. Crawling into the Winnie the Pooh covers, or Strawberry fields, and repeating the pages of "Go Dog Go" for weeks,only to see that Dog needs to join the party. Or lifting the pop-up of the Chicken Pox book, and hearing my oldest say.."That's what I would do" when the big chicken with pox says to put them in a "pox box" and send them away. Good Night Moon, and the bowl full of mush, and The old man on the stump of the Giving Tree.. How can an ebook-bring this to a mom and her children? These moments, and memories, and small sweets of deliciousness.
In the moment the students said it, and the others agreed, I all of the sudden felt selfish and continued to feel this gnaw at me throughout the day. Not selfish because I wanted to keep my precious books, but selfish in the sense that for the first time I could feel empathy for the arts in a way I hadn't before. I bet artists felt this way when photography crept onto the scene. Or chefs, maybe felt this with the phenomenon of the microwave, and frozen dinners. Musicians had to take a step aside, when people started downloading music for free, and purchasing music almost seems like a thing of the past. Stage actors, adjusting to the big screen, and later reality television. Maybe our ancestors all felt this, as things began to progress and change. I can't help, but feel such shame.
For the first time, I am feeling my age. I am feeling like I understand the saying my parents used to say, "When I was younger..we had to walk a mile in the snow." i am sure I laughed, like the young man who sat in my classroom today. Change isn't always good I am realizing.I see it clearly, and it feels so Orwellian to think it.
I feel like issuing an apology to all generations past, telling them that the way they did things had value, and meaning. That even though our world has progressed-the card catalog, the typewriter, the reading by candlelight all holds a purpose, and a memory. I'm sorry if I didn't see this until now. Simplicity in a lot of ways bleeds imagination, and ingenuity. It's invaluable.
