My Affair with Books

I hope to stay my course---read the famous classics from the Greeks until the late twentieth century. I have a decent collection of literary classics. But, looking at my dazzling collection, I am at my wit’s end---where to begin! Will I end up being a mere book collector? Forget majoring in literature, won't I even have the satisfaction of calling myself an informal student of literature? Will the money that could have bought immediate joys to my loved ones leave me with only a hope of future joy? I have browsed the net for inspiration and direction, careful not to ignore the two even if they can be found buried in the comment threads and finger-tiring scrolls. I have browsed through the best books voted by Times, Modern Library, and umpteen other blog posts on good reads to prepare myself for that leap. But, I am still nursing my irritation.

Just yesterday I went on another buying spree and ended up with six additions to my collection. Now, I have decided to stop after two, or maybe three titles.

You see, guilt is also the wages of sins we commit on ourselves. My intellectual craving is multi-pronged. I am compelled to do justice to my MBA that has claimed a fortune slightly more than what my books have siphoned off from my earnings. Honing my professional skills also demands a share of my reading time. It is easier for me to shun my academic and professional calling, but not the voices from the knowledge frontier echoing in my ears: Literature, philosophy (Indian or western?), history (Indian or World?), and other random themes.

Poetry too, maybe not so much. I more of a prose person. That poetry is also about meter and technique was a discouraging discovery. Poetic scansion is not for those whose association with language is not auditory, which made it very evident that my appreciation of poetry in English leaves out a foundational element of poetry---meter. I spoke very little English before standard 9. Past meaning, my only possible appreciation of a poem was in the rhythmic endings. Otherwise, what is possible in a poem, I felt, is also possible in prose. Phonetics and linguistics I have banished as my subjects for study. Add to this, my disconnect with Western mythology, culture, and idiom. Nonetheless, I read the modern translation of The Canterbury Tales by Nevil Cohill and  enjoyed it. Also, Venus and Adonis by Shakespeare. I could understand what was being said and how! (Before I knew Shakespeare as a playwright, I knew him as a poet. To me, he excels as the latter). 

Now, these lengthy poems were read purely on whim. I feel the best approach to reading is to pick up anything that rivets your attention, and before the zeal dies out, devour the book. The following books were read in the heat of the moment: Robinson Crusoe, Fanny Hill (erotica served in a superb literary garb), The Haj by Leon Uris, The Great Gatsby, The Biography of a Continent –– Africa by John Reader, and The English Language by Bill Bryson.

In the meantime, other books vie for your attention. Some talking point or trivia about a book or an author combined with the prevailing mental state sets you on a reading trajectory. That’s how I happened to read Tom Jones (was sheer joy), Pamela (to later enjoy Shamela), War and Peace (a tome of a book listed as a difficult read), Candide (coming from the father of Renaissance), Siddhartha by Herman Hesse and Words by Sartre (Osho’s disappointing recommendation), A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man (for stream-of-consciousness nonsense). Some of the books were part of school curriculum as non-details: So, I read up Gulliver’s Travels, The Hound of Baskervilles, Great Expectations, and Up From Slavery in their unabridged version later. When I contemplated moving to Australia, I read Down Under by Bill Bryson.

Sometimes, it’s a recommendation from people you cannot refuse, although I detest people's claim on my free time. A Patchwork Planet was thus read. In Love in Another Town, I was for the first time reading a sexual encounter being described (unloosening, cupping, throbbing, riding on the waves of ecstasy, blah, blah). Quarter of this book I read in the attic curving my spine while scanning through a box full of novels. And, Who Moved My Cheese. How can I forget that author, a time killer. I was just 6–8 pages short when I dumped the book without regret. When I had nothing to read, I read Eden Passion. The black hardbound cover was temptation enough.

From a very young age, my intellectual hunger satisfied itself in the newspaper columns that contained excerpts from the works of modern saints. I well remember my initiation into readership was a Sunday full-page article by Anand Swami Saraswathi of Arya Samaj. In Class V, I read the English translation of the Bhagavad Gita from Gita Press. That translation is very dear to me; I got most of the translation by heart. Unfortunately, they have normalized the translation to suit modern tastes. Then, I picked up moral science text-books that propagated Christian themes. Later, the Holy Bible. A taste for philosophical mysticism had taken roots in my heart. In class 7, I read a booklet Vivekananda Speaks to You. The reader in me was set on fire. At this time, a very generous heart became my benefactor. I was lavished with books. Many authors were added to my stable. Almost all the publications from Ramakrishna Math, including the 7-volume Cultural Heritage of India were bought. I have collected around 23 commentaries on the Gita. Books by Dr. S. Radhakrishnan, Sri Aurobindo, Bertrand Russell, Schrodinger, Osho, J. Krishnamurthy, and other major thinkers adorn my shelf.

Well, as in literature, so here: The frustrating question ‘where to begin’ raises its head. Discursive reading has its thrills but it comes at the cost of depth and retention. All philosophy is built on the succession of thoughts and ideas which the subsequent thought builds upon. The genesis of these ideas is scattered and couched in verbiage that may be of historical interest but their philosophical take-away is few and far in between. And, in the later works, the entire system that has gone before is subsumed and consequently, the ideas become dense and unintelligible to a casual intruder. Luckily, the Indian system also offers a multitude of semi-philosophical books that are intellectually satisfying. In this category fall the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, some of the Vedantic texts, and the retelling of the vedantic thought by its modern exponents. But, the more philosophical works of Indian dialecticians warrant time and close attention. Indian Philosophy Vol I by Dr. S. Radhakrishnan was a smooth sail till I hit upon the hard rock of the Buddhist epistemology. Similarly, Sri Aurobindo's works demand great concentration. He has conquered the final frontier of spiritual expression possible through English language. He has pushed a great deal the boundaries of inexpressibility. Beyond that writing cannot go. If the subject interests you, I feel, reading him is the highest fruit of literacy and comprehension.

In retrospect, my restlessness of spirit, beached on the shores of classics. The love for language, the love for the mechanism by which thought and feeling are unravelled enamoured me. Words, when they strike gracefully on the harp of meaning, produce music. I fell to the charm of the word. And, with it, I became a victim of choice.