Book Collector I am? I am.

Well, due to my whimsical mood today in the face of a string of minor adversities, I'd say things are going well. The intent of the last post still holds true- good things baby... GOOD THINGS comin' my way!

Whimsical mood or not, my titular use of Yoda Grammar is a unique production from my key-tapping, but that's okay. I read an essay from a collection of Walter Benjamin's writings today, and I really enjoyed it. He reviews the pleasures of being a book-collector while unpacking his library:

"I am unpacking my library.  Yes, I am.  The books are not yet on the shelves, not yet touched by the mild boredom of order.  I cannot march up and down their ranks to pass them in review before a friendly audience.  You need not fear any of that.  Instead, I  must ask you to join me in the disorder of crates that have been wrenched open, the air saturated with the dust of wood, the floor covered with torn paper, to join me among the piles of volumes that are seeing daylight again after two years of darkness, so that you may be ready to share with me a bit of the mood--it is certainly not an elegiac mood but, rather, one of anticipation--which these books arouse in a genuine collector." 

Every day I try to steal thirty minutes of stress relief by taking an old fashioned bath. I drink a favorite beverage and bring the latest book I'm working through. Subject matter is usually essay collections- due to the short nature of my therapeutic interlude, surrendering to hot suds on weary muscles, cold suds to ease my throats, short-smooth-thought provoking essays put the final stabilizing spin that makes a good bath worth my time.

Ray Bradbury's book ZEN AND THE ART OF WRITING was the last winning contestant. It was to be followed by a collection of Louis Borges' Short Stories and Essays, with Essays of Albert Camus in hot pursuit, but when Benjamin's REFLECTIONS came in the mail, that book toppled them all. Benjamin is proving to be the far removed cousin to my study of Jung. Benjamin and Jung complement each in sort of a subconscious way- I can't really define how. They were both pioneers- Jung in mystical science of the mind and Benjamin mystical literary criticism. I feel connected to Benjamin the way I identified with some of Jung's traits and experiences. If I were to illustrate my overall gut simultaneous appreciation of their work, they would be a Yin Yang sign, except I would be hard-pressed to say which was black and which was white.

The mundane duties of every day life assert themselves... excuse me while I pick up my children from school...

To be continued before night fall....

AND about a week later...

I enjoyed Benjamin's essay because I identified with his love of books. He recognized that owning a book is much better than borrowing it. I also appreciated his statement that just because you own a lot of books doesn't mean you are obligated to read them all. His quote from Anatole France validates this reasoning: upon the snotty inquiry of a visiting bourgeois merchant 'Monseiur- I'm sure you have read all these?' Anatole- "Not one-tenth of them.  I don't suppose you use your Sèvres china every day?".

Benjamin also writes of a poor intellectual who, upon reading through catalogues of books he couldn't afford to buy, picked the most fascinating titles and from them wrote the novels he would have like to have read. That was another great take-away from Walt: That true writers are the ones who write the stories that seem to be missing from the stacks.

In someways, he reminds me a little of Fernando Pessoa. Benjamin's love of quotations seems to mirror Pessoa's multitudinous personalities, alluding to a similar desire to communicate indirectly and by discrete literary proxy.  Both of them know how to convey the reality of their selected personality and presence through their written words.

I guess I thought I had a lot more to say, but that comes from losing your train of thought to the relentless march of pragmatic every day life.

Here's to the greatest German-Jewish-French literary critic who ever lived, good leather-bound books, and my excellent cup of coffee fresh out of the microwave.

Cheers.