What to read
Quite often, I am pressed upon to answer certain calls concerning literature. Let me first explain how this works. It is a very hard task indeed to say something new about a book that you and someone else have both read. Thus, though there is no argument that you have in fact read the book, you are unable to show off the one really good thing about reading and that is that people who are smart read. And vise versa, people who read are smart. And therefore, people who read the most are smartest.
Nonetheless, your prowess in this category cannot be upheld if someone else has read the same ammount as you and so invariably you must read books that no one else has read. For instance, "have you read Harriet Prescott Spofford?" See how intimidating that is. You, in fact, have not read Harriet Prescott Spofford. So, I follow up with, "well, her poetry does not, in fact, compare with that of Marie De France." And to this you must agree. You haven't read either. Furthermore, I'm already two ahead of you.
This happens to me a lot. Not the getting ahead part, but the number of gibberlings who bring up the four books that they've read in their life with a tone of shock and amazement that I have never read a single one of these authors. "Surely you've read Bakhtin? No. What about Dreyfus? No. Have you read much Wittgenstein?" There's always at least one philosopher. Thus, one wonders at the actual value of books, especially books that everyone has read. What's the point of reading Macbeth, when you know that you will get no such clout, but will probably be met instead with the phrase, "oh, I read that in High school." Thus, I have come to a conclusion, while moving my books in 102 degree heat, as to a way that value may be placed on books.
First things first, books are made from trees. No, I am not about to make some kind of ecological plea: no trees=no books. That's not my point. My point is instead, that things that are made out of trees are made of wood. Good so far. And what do we know about wood (besides that it floats).
That's right. It's frickin' heavy.
Now some of you will mention that books are also made out of ink, and that ink really isn't all that heavy. But there you have committed a falacy, the fallacy of composition in fact, because though ink isn't heavy and books are made out of ink, one cannot forget the wood. So, that a box full of books is as heavy as an equal volume of wood plus the weight of the ink.
Now, having worked out what a volume of wood 2'x2'x2' might be (somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty pounds, I'd guess), you realize that a box full of books is a heavy thing--in the order of heavy that will drop your intestines out your butt.
Finally we have arrived at a value system for literature then. What are you willing to put in those boxes? What are you glad you packed? What do you wish you'd left behind? And when you look into a box, just before dry lifting it, though you need not admit it to anyone, does it not break your heart that you may thank Harriet Prescott Spofford for this Hernia, and not William Shakespeare. All so that you can say, "Well, have you read 'The Amber Gods and other stories'?" "No, well then aren't I smarter than you with my dislocated vertebrae."
Nonetheless, your prowess in this category cannot be upheld if someone else has read the same ammount as you and so invariably you must read books that no one else has read. For instance, "have you read Harriet Prescott Spofford?" See how intimidating that is. You, in fact, have not read Harriet Prescott Spofford. So, I follow up with, "well, her poetry does not, in fact, compare with that of Marie De France." And to this you must agree. You haven't read either. Furthermore, I'm already two ahead of you.
This happens to me a lot. Not the getting ahead part, but the number of gibberlings who bring up the four books that they've read in their life with a tone of shock and amazement that I have never read a single one of these authors. "Surely you've read Bakhtin? No. What about Dreyfus? No. Have you read much Wittgenstein?" There's always at least one philosopher. Thus, one wonders at the actual value of books, especially books that everyone has read. What's the point of reading Macbeth, when you know that you will get no such clout, but will probably be met instead with the phrase, "oh, I read that in High school." Thus, I have come to a conclusion, while moving my books in 102 degree heat, as to a way that value may be placed on books.
First things first, books are made from trees. No, I am not about to make some kind of ecological plea: no trees=no books. That's not my point. My point is instead, that things that are made out of trees are made of wood. Good so far. And what do we know about wood (besides that it floats).
That's right. It's frickin' heavy.
Now some of you will mention that books are also made out of ink, and that ink really isn't all that heavy. But there you have committed a falacy, the fallacy of composition in fact, because though ink isn't heavy and books are made out of ink, one cannot forget the wood. So, that a box full of books is as heavy as an equal volume of wood plus the weight of the ink.
Now, having worked out what a volume of wood 2'x2'x2' might be (somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty pounds, I'd guess), you realize that a box full of books is a heavy thing--in the order of heavy that will drop your intestines out your butt.
Finally we have arrived at a value system for literature then. What are you willing to put in those boxes? What are you glad you packed? What do you wish you'd left behind? And when you look into a box, just before dry lifting it, though you need not admit it to anyone, does it not break your heart that you may thank Harriet Prescott Spofford for this Hernia, and not William Shakespeare. All so that you can say, "Well, have you read 'The Amber Gods and other stories'?" "No, well then aren't I smarter than you with my dislocated vertebrae."
posted by Monstro D. Whale at
4:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home