Sunday, September 14, 2008

Incomprehensible

I think sometimes that I am not a very understanding person.

I mean, I try to be understanding. And really, I can understand things like people feeling sad or lonely, or feeling frustrated with traffic or with crowded subway trains, or how it feels when the hot weather finally breaks and you get one perfect day.

I can understand that.

But I have a hard time understanding other things. Things like, for instance, why some people don't care for books. This one has me flummoxed. Well, granted, I can understand that if someone has a reading problem like dyslexia or similar somethings, reading would not be a pleasant experience exactly. (But hey--books on tape are always a fantastic option! Braille! Etc.!)

But people who don't find themselves thinking about characters while they're walking around on the sidewalk? Who don't automatically reach for some tattered paperback or thick-and-heavy leather-bound classic edition or yeesh--even a magazine or something, whenever they have a spare minute or ten? Who don't relish that mingle of climax, loss, and joy, a joy with a flavor unlike anything else--like something unbearably delicious that dissolves almost as soon as you taste it, as if to linger any longer on your tongue would cause you to spin into giddy delirium--that comes when you read the last sentence of an excellent book, close it, rub the cover a little and smiling, sigh to yourself?

I sometimes fear that I can have nothing to share with such people.

I'm sure there would be some things we could agree on, that it's easier to see when there is sufficient light, that couches are generally preferable to stone benches, that blankets are good when it is cold, but there would always be this deep inner part of me that would remain untouched, bewildered, uncomprehending.

So, I'm afraid my sympathetic powers are limited. I may never fully understand another human being unless they're somewhat bookish, like me.

Because, my dears, I am incontrovertibly and deliriously and giddily bookish. And I revel in it.

Why, oh why don't all people long to be librarians?

4 comments:

Mama M said...

Do you recall that when your youngest brother was in first grade he had to do one of those "self descriptive" work pages: 1) What is my favorite color? 2) Who is my best friend?...and so forth. One of the questions was this: "One question I have always wanted to ask is..." He filled in the little blank with this question: "Why is there always music in my head?"

The truth is, you are either a person who always has music in your head, or you are not. And you are either a person who lives half your life between the pages of a book, or you are not. You can be taught to appreciate music. You can learn to enjoy books. But there is part of your soul that connects with these things, or there is not.

Do you suppose Michael Phelps sits around and wonders why everybody isn't in the water. I wonder....

emilysuze said...

I love that you're bookish. It makes you delightfully Beth-ish. :)

And I think that it's amazing that you want to be a librarian. I hope to someday be on that path again...I have librarian envy.

Lydia said...

I feel you, getting lost in a good book is a great day to spend an afternoon. I always wish I had more time to read.

Kimberly Bluestocking said...

I wish I had more time to read. Maybe if I didn't blog so much . . .