some thoughts

I take a lot of flak for liking “old books.”

And rightly so, I’ll admit (this is nostalgic reflection, not a defense). I’ve even said of myself that it’s an “nearly insatiable case of booklust.” But, if I may…there is a little something more to it than that. Would you indulge me for a moment?

I do like books. And, usually, it is the old ones I like best. Thinking back, I guess I’ve always liked them–but never for their own sake, I don’t think. There’s something a little behind, a bit just out of reach of the mere pages–not even “in” or “on” them–after all, they’re nothing in themselves but dried wood pulp and ink. No, it’s something more…something deeper, not-completely-containable, something not entirely “logical,” something even (may I say it?)…a little magical.

The earliest “old books” I remember liking are my dad’s boyhood collection of edge-worn, yellow-jacketed Hardy Boys adventures (circa 1920s!). I can still see them all lined up in a row on an obscure shelf in my grandparents attic–no doubt placed there strategically so that I’d have to “explore” a bit to get to them–just whispering to me each summer we visited. Frank and Joe were men’s men–honor, courage, integrity, a strong sense of right and wrong and an even stronger sense of adventure and curiosity. These were even men enough to have a well-mannered boxing match to settle a brotherly dispute–with never a grudge held afterward. I still get a twinkle in my eye when I think about them. But, the yellow pages and their musty smell were nothing in themselves without the soul-kindling stories they told me. (Perhaps the oldness of the books, the color, the wear, the smell, came to be a sort of “sacrament” of the wonderous stories they contained, a reminder of something there, something behind, but which was never fully found out.)

Later it was the classics of Greek Mythology. The fantastic heroes, the epic journeys and battles, the classic trifecta popularized in a recent “viral book” in the church world: “A battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to win.” Others bought new copies, but I got to read my mom’s old ones. Somehow the oldness of the pages made them seem part of the story itself, as if they were filled up by an endangered but committed onlooker. At about the same time, it was the old political and poetical works, the epics, the comedies and the tragedies. The big ideas and guiding principles were absolutely captivating! Life, I was learning, was big, it was old, and it was everywhere–and it was mostly outside of my miniscule me and the problems of my meager day-to-day meanderings. Life was out there! Conversations on law and politics and philosophy and meaning and beauty that had long outlived (and continue to outlive) every human contributor–all waiting for me listen in on, take up, become well versed in, and joyfully pass on to another eager sojourner or two.

For the past few years, as will be no surprise to anyone reading here (both of you!), it’s been the puritans and the great works of the church; whether devotional, polemic, systematic, poetic, anything. Even more exciting than the epic stories of Greek Myth, the clever sleuthing of Frank and Joe, the brilliant prose and rhetoric of the classics, is the story of the Covenant-keeping Creator, the first Adam and the Last, the bride and her soon-coming King. I don’t wish to live in the puritan age (I would surely be disappointed,) but something just seems deeper about their time. It seems as though they were so much less hurried than we are. They lingered over questions, ideas, conversations–each other. I am probably romanticizing, but it just seems as if they could more easily live lives of deep meaning and meditation, reflecting on and enjoying each day before gently laying it to rest.

How easily we can (or, I should say, “I can”) go for weeks, if not months, without really being “awake” to what is going on all around and outside of us (me)! These “old books”, with all else they give, also give a small taste of a life of simplicity, quiet contentment, wonder at everything outer. No; it isn’t the mere materials of the books (how small a fancy!), nor even the rustic-ness of the “olden days” (reverse chronological snobbery!), but the ideas, the stories, the characters, “the good, the beautiful and the true”, the “permanent things,” that beckoned me “further up and further in,” to look up and out and away from myself, and catch the fire of imagination and curiosity about the world out there. All of these (may I call them, “friends”?) taught me to listen (though I am still learning how). That quote from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington a few posts back said it well: “‘Have you ever noticed how grateful you are to see daylight again after coming through a long dark tunnel?’ ‘Well…always try to see life around ya as if you’d just come out of a tunnel.” Lewis probably said it best of all with his comments about nostalgia and sehnsucht in The Weight of Glory.

So, yeah…I do like old books. But not because they’re old, nor because they’re books, really. It’s what’s in them that stirs me. It’s what’s in them that helps me to see and to hear–and to want to see and hear–all that’s out there. That’s why I like “old books.”