On Books

Because of my work, I move a lot. Each time, it takes a few months before the new house becomes familiar. And I’ve noticed, time and time again, the peculiar moment when a new house suddenly transforms into being a familiar home: it’s the moment I unpack the boxes to put my books on the shelves. As the books are being lifted out of the boxes to fill the shelves, I feel my past also leaps out and fills up the present.

I have quite a lot of books. Some I’ve read once; some many times; some I’ve read a half; and some only a few pages. But I always know when a book goes missing. And it bothers me when someone borrows my books and forgets to return them, even though I must admit that I myself sometimes commit the same crime.

Among my books, the ones that I hold closest to my heart are the old books that have been bent out of shape by time. Like the one that I carried with me to India that rainy season – its pages had been soaked and curled up by moisture, such that it forever lost its original shape. Or the one I left for a month atop the wooden desk on the forth floor of my parents’ house back in Hanoi (that house is always filled with sunshine) — the color on the cover of that book has faded. Watching the books fade with time gives me the same feeling as watching my parents, relatives, and friends grow old with each day past.

I never write or highlight on the pages of my books. Just like I never want to paint my friends’ faces with dirt.
Time and space put limits on our life in the sense that each of us can only live one life and be in one place at a particular time. The pages of books, then, serve as windows that open us to lives of others and worlds elsewhere. And just like windows, they also let the sun shine through and into our own lives.

Thus, we read not only to satisfy our desire to know about the universe and life but we also read in order to nurture that desire to know. When we find the answer to a question through a book, we will naturally come up with two new questions and such questions will lead us to new books.

Of course, we can’t find all answers in books because real life is so much larger than books. There are things that books can’t teach us because there are things we can’t fully understand until we’ve crashed and burned in life. And there are also things that are better communicated through speaking than writing.

But on the other hand, we can learn from books more than we expect because there are many things we cannot express in spoken words. Human relationships hinge on certain rules: our everyday life is already tiring, thus we should not make it harder for others by imposing on them our own torments. When we speak, we are making that imposition because the act of speaking demands immediate attention of the listener at that very moment. When we write, however, we let our readers choose their own time to communicate with us. Expressed at wrong times, the most heartfelt message can become inappropriate and lost. Books, however, give us the great advantage of being always stable over time.

Books are special friends who always come to us with an open heart. When we move, these friends accompany us. Forever they are waiting for us on the shelves.

(original adaption in Vietnamese by professor Ngô Bảo Châu, translated into English by writer Phan Việt)

20/12/2010
Hồ Quốc Nam 
http://hoquocnam.blogspot.com