One night, years ago, I was so excited over the books I would someday read I couldn’t sleep. As a child, the happiest moment of my week was driving home from the public library with enough armfuls of books to last the weekend. Then, in early high school, my grandmother encouraged me to keep a reading log, which motivated me to finish each book. My senior high curriculum introduced me to the classics—which I enjoyed so much I studied English in college. Shortly before high school graduation, I imagined the rows of well-worn books my library would one day hold and the vast reading log I could eventually boast about. Would the shelves of literature and fiction be stored in the living room and the bookcases of theology in my study? The possibilities were so tantalizing I could barely wind myself down to rest.
Six years later, and my dream of a perfect library has been tempered by reality. This includes life choices, like how I ended up working for years instead of immediately entering school. It also includes shelf-space limitations, missing books lent to friends, and holes on my ideal shelf left by eBooks and audiobooks. But, more than all this, my excitement faded when I was confronted by the growing mountain of books I would never read.
There is no shortage of books I ought to read: books recommended in interviews with favorite writers; books passed on to me by friends, generous in intent but unaware they are only making things worse; books I really ought to reread. Never-mind the annual slew of best-of-the-year blogs; every week the New York Times publishes a list of new books worth pursuing. I chip away faithfully, averaging eight books a month. But finishing a book does nothing to alleviate the problem. If it’s non-fiction, its bibliography is bursting with other fascinating titles. If it’s fiction, I’ll want to chase down the rest of that author’s work.
So, my desk overflows with growing stacks of volumes. They are at least somewhat organized: books I can’t wait to read, books I’d like to read someday, books I really should be reading, books I know I’ll probably never get to, and—towering over them all—a tottering stack of books I’ve finished. (At least it’s the largest stack.) The Japanese have a word for this situation: tsundoku. It means “leaving a book unread after buying it, typically piled up together with other unread books.” The coiner of that word must have wandered into my bedroom.
I found hope when I read of the Italian scholar and novelist Umberto Eco’s 30,000 volume library. It is said that he separated his visitors into two categories: “those who react with ‘Wow! Signore professore dottore Eco, what a library you have! How many of these books have you read?’ and the others—a very small minority—who get the point that a private library is not an ego-boosting appendage but a research tool.”
The first reaction treats bookshelves as a showcase of achievement, an attitude I was in danger of adapting.
The second reaction takes a different approach. Author Nassim Nicholas Taleb, whom I just quoted, described Eco’s perspective as recognizing that potential is not in the books you’ve read but in those that remain unread. Therefore, you ought to expand the rows of what you do not know as much as your resources allow, and expect them to keep growing as you get older and accumulate more knowledge. To Eco and Taleb, those menacing shelves (or, in my case, stacks) of unread books are both a humbling reminder of how much we don’t know and a tantalizing promise of ideas to explore.
So, I can relax. The volumes of books I continue to bring home are not reminders of guilt or inadequacy, but rather invitations to the vast world of ideas and stories worth exploring. My attitude has become more that of a traveler and less that of a conqueror. To approach every experience—every meal, sunset and natural wonder—as mealy acquisition is foolish. It spoils the beauty in front of you. Instead, enjoy the good gifts you are able to receive. Dig deep into the history and culture of the corner of the world you find yourself in.
Tolkien claimed that his stories of Middle-earth sprang from the “leaf mould” of his mind. If you want to produce rich loam, you’ll put good food scraps in compost not in your garbage. Over time, and with some cultivation, the egg shells, apple cores, and coffee grounds become unrecognizable, transformed into dark, moist, nutrient-rich earth. With good soil, there’s a better chance you’ll produce good fruit.
Tolkien immersed himself in Beowulf, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and early English etymology. Their ideas stewed in his mind as he raised his family, graded exams, and smoked his pipe. Eventually his marvelous stories of hobbits, dwarves, and wizards emerged. I don’t imagine I will create a classic of fantasy literature, but I am expecting that the material I surround myself with will feed my life and output in unseen ways. The rows of volumes I collect are an account of my influences, but their real influence may take decades to transform.
I’ll continue to seek out books and live my life—literally—amongst them. I’ll read with eagerness, following veins of gold deep into the mountain. I’ll trust that the material I’m consuming is shaping my life and my writing in ways that can’t be measured by lists of accomplishments or shelves of dog-eared, annotated trophies. And perhaps I’ll also buy more bookshelves, so my desk has room to breathe.