So Many Books

SO MANY BOOKS

Okay … here’s St. Augustine … Aristotle … Socrates … Plato … Hmm. All the oldies together … uh … Kant, Dewey, Sellars, Tillich … ahh, here she is — Hanna Arendt! Yay!

I ran my fingers along the shelf of books. I was deep in the stacks, in the philosophy section. I looked around. I was alone. I was always alone in the philosophy section of the library. It was fairly quiet in the Humanities section of the stacks, in general, but it was down-right lonely in philosophy. Philosophy, the least loved of the humanities. I was used to it, though. At least I didn’t have to worry about the books I wanted being signed out. I had all the books to myself.  

I sighed.

Being a philosophy major had driven my parents insane.  

“What are you going to do with a philosophy degree?” they said. “Think?”  

“I don’t think navel gazing is a job! Get a real degree!” 

“I think, therefore I am? Baloney! I think you should study something that will get you a good job!”  

While not particularly fair-minded, my parents had been right. There were really no good jobs for a person with a philosophy degree unless you continue to the highest levels of education. And that was what I was doing right now, getting ready for the orals for my PhD. The last step before I become a doctor of philosophy.  Yippee?

Sigh.

 I study, therefore I am.

I opened the book, On Revolution. I looked back at the shelf. There it was, Arendt’s most famous book, The Origins of Totalitarianism. Heady stuff.  

I leaned my back against the bookshelf behind me, opened the text, scanning the table of contents —

And suddenly I was sitting on my ass on the floor. But, looking around, I realized, not on the carpeted floor of the library. So, where was I?

“No, no, no, NO! This will never do! NO! NO! NO!”

Swivelling my head towards the voice, I saw a little old man sitting at a desk, feather quill — was that really a quill? — in hand. He looked as surprised as I felt. And extremely agitated.

“You have go to leave!” he said. Dropping his quill, he jumped to his feet, and walked a couple of steps towards me. “Right now! Now, now, NOW!”

He made shooing motions with his hands, reminding my of someone trying to herd chickens back into their coop.

I couldn’t do much, sitting on the floor. I had fallen through the bookshelf. I looked at it. It had swung inwards creating an opening just big enough for me to pass through. It reminded me of the fireplace scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade — a secret room in the castle behind the false fireplace, where all the bad guys were working on secret bad guy stuff.  But in this case, instead of a fireplace it was a bookshelf, and instead of Nazis, it was a wizened, white haired man trying to shoo me away.

I stood slowly, and brushed myself off. When I took a step away from the open bookshelf, it slid silently shut.

“Now you’ve done it! Now you’ve done it! This will never do!”  

The little man looked at me, angst writ large over his ancient face. “This will NEVER do!” he repeated, still shaking his head.

I bent to pick up my book.  The floor was old — really old. It looked like hand-hewn cobblestone, something you’d find in a European castle, or a monastery. I looked around the room. It was large, very, very large. 

How is this room so large? I’m on the fifth floor of the library? 

The question passed quickly through my mind, almost without notice.  

The room receded into darkness away from the desk the little man had been sitting. With the exception of the immediate area where I had literally dropped in, every available space was occupied by bookshelves. Very tall bookcases, disappearing towards the dim ceiling. And on those bookshelves were books — large books, small books, old books, new books, from fragile looking skinny tomes to hefty oversized books that looked like they could stop a bullet.

“What is this place?” I asked, turning in a semi circle, looking at all the books.

“It is nothing! Nothing at all! NOTHING!”

“All these books …” I started walking towards the closest bookshelf.  

“NO! You mustn’t! No, no, no! You mustn’t!”  

He looked panicked now. Tentatively, he took another step towards me, hands still raised.

“Stop, stop, STOP! You have to go back! Back, back, BACK!”

I turned my focus towards the agitated little man.

“I’m Camille Cordova. I’m a student here in the philosophy department.” I stuck my hand out to shake.

Instead of taking my hand, he continued to shoo me away with his.  

“No, Camille Cordova, you ARE NOT a student here. You ARE NOT! I am the only person here,” he said, shaking his head, and waving his hands in front of his face. “You do not belong here. You MUST leave. NOW!”

I looked at him. “Okay, I’ll leave. But first you have to tell me what this place is.” I gazed again at the books, taking another step towards the nearest book shelf.

“NO! NO! NO! I CANNOT tell you what this is, because it doesn’t exist. No. Nothing you see here exists! NOTHING!”

Now, that’s not something to say to a philosophy student.

I waved my arm to encompass the room. “I exist, and I am here, therefore this room, all these books, and you, exist. Everything I see exists.”

“Ohhhh,” he wailed. “You are NOT supposed to be here.”

He walked back to his desk, sat down and dropped his head into his hands, shaking it back and forth in misery.

“Ohhhhh. What to do?” he wailed. “What to do?”

I was beginning to feel sorry for the odd little man. He was so obviously distraught.

I approached his desk. It was old — ancient, even — solid wood, scarred from eons of use. The surface was dulled and discoloured. There was an ink well, a bottle of ink and a neat stack of what I assumed was blue blotting paper, on the desk, with the quill pen laid beside it. The only other thing on the desk was a ledger. I’m usually pretty good at reading upside down, but the overly ornate calligraphy on the page confounded me.

I drew my gaze up to the little man.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“They call me Benedictine,” he said quietly, not meeting my eyes.

“Hello, Benedictine. Tell me, why are you so upset.” I waited a beat. He just shook his head.  

I tried another tact. “I’m upset as well. A few minutes ago I was standing in the library, minding my own business, perusing this book —" I held up On Revolution "And now I’m in this very odd room, with you. And you won’t tell me anything other than the fact that I shouldn’t be here.”

I smiled, hoping to distract him from his dilemma, by focussing on mine.

“Can you pleas tell me where I am, Benedictine?” I looked around the room. “And when?”

Still no answer. Just a low keening sound.

“Come on, Benedictine, help me out here.”

He raised his head.

“You are at the Repository,” he said sighing.

“Repository? What is the Repository?”

He looked towards the ceiling, perhaps praying for guidance.

“It’s where we keep the books.”

I was confused. 

"The library was where we kept the books. Is this a library?” I asked, searching the shelves with my eyes.

“No, no, no. Much more important. Much, much more important.”

“I don’t understand, Benedictine. Is this a private collection of some sort?”

For the first time since I had fallen into his life, he almost smiled.

“No, Camille Cordova, it’s almost the opposite.” 

He stood and walked towards the first shelf of books, gazing lovingly at the spines.

“These books have all been banned at some point in history.”

I was shocked. “But there are so many,” I stammered, searching the shelves. “So very many …”

Benedictine pointed to one of the books on the shelves. “This was the unnamed text written by the philosopher, Abelard. He was forced to burn it in public in the year 1121. Can you imagine, having to burn your own book? Knowing no one would ever read it?”

“But how?” I asked stunned, “If it was burned, how … how do you have a copy?”

I looked closely. The cover was singed, one corner missing.

“We have our ways, and people have always protected the books.”

He moved down the isle. “Ah, yes, this is the poet Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, considered too racy. Also ‘burned’.” He used air quotes to denote burned.

I gazed at the books as we walked down the isle.

“Ah, here is one of the earliest versions of the Christian Bible, written in a monastery. It is the version that contained references to reincarnation. But it was banned by King James. He didn’t like the idea of coming back as anything other than a deity, which he considered himself. So he banned this version, and commissioned a revised edition more to his liking.”

He continued walking. “Here is the copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy written in 1321.”

I was confused. “But it’s a book that’s read in schools. It’s not banned.”

Benedictine nodded his head. “That is true. But when a book is banned, we have no way of knowing if it will be for a day, a week, a year, a century, forever. We cannot take the chance that it will never be read again. We have to protect the books.”

As we walked the isles, I saw books written by some of the most revered thinkers of their time — Rousseau, Gallileo, Copernicus. Benedictine followed my gaze.  

“Yes, many philosophers were considered heretical. For example, leaders during Gallileo’s time considered his writing dangerous, bordering on sorcery. Banned!” He waved his hands at the shelves of books. “All of these books presented a perspective different from the governments and monarchs of their time, and therefore posing a danger to the ruling elite. By banning their works, and threatening reprisals, the authors were silenced. But not before their works were rescued, and brought here to the Repository.”

There were so many books — too many books. 

As Benedictine talked, and pointed out the different books, we curved around and started back towards the front, I caught sight of more modern books, many of which I had read myself.

“I know some of these titles,” I said. “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?” I looked at Benedictine. “Why?”

“The language was considered course, demeaning and damaging.”

“To Kill a Mockingbird? You’re kidding? It’s considered a masterpiece on racism in the south. Kids read it in high school. It’s mandatory.”

“Banned for conflicting views contrary to the values of the community.”

“The Wonderful Wizard of Oz? Come on! Dorothy? The Tin Man? Lion? Scarecrow? Toto?”

“Because the characters were able to develop their own personalities, which ran contrary to the belief that all human attributes were God-given.”

“The Scarlet Letter?”

“Considered obscene and pornographic. Hester Prynne was unmarried.”

I spotted a personal favourite of my own childhood.

“Really? Where the Wild Things Are? I loved that book. Max on an adventure …”

“Witchcraft and the supernatural.”

“But it’s all in his imagination.”

Benedictine just shrugged.

“Call of the Wild? It’s about a dog in the Yukon. Really?”

“It was considered too radical. The Nazis burned it because the author, Jack London, was a socialist.”

I continued to look at the titles, while walking slowly down the aisle.

“Come on! Charlotte’s Web? A spider that saves a pig. How can that be offensive?”

“Talking animals were deemed blasphemous and unnatural.”

I continued reading the titles. The Catcher in the Rye, The Colour Purple, Animal Fam, Of Mice and Men. So many books that I had read in school, or just because they were great books. Some great literature.

Seeing my dismay at the books contained in the ranks of banned books, Benedictine explained that many of the bannings were contained to a small geographic area, maybe even limited to a single school. He also explained that many — no most — were eventually returned to the shelves of schools and libraries. But still, they had been banned, and had to be preserved, just in case. But still, there had to be a consensus of people, somewhere, who agreed that these books were not worthy of public consumption, and threatened the morality, or senses of the population, so they were banned. It was so sad. And aggravating.

We turned the corner, and I stopped short.  

“Benedictine, what am I looking at?”

There were piles and piles of books, haphazardly stacked on the floor — stacks and stacks of books headed towards the ceiling. So many books!

“Ah,” he said, his gaze shifting around the ramshackle piles. “These are the banned books from the last couple of years.” He turned to look at me. “Many are not well-known, nor will they ever be, but they are here because someone took umbrage with what was written, and decided they should be banned.” He pointed towards a particularly large stack of books. “Those are the books from Florida, alone.” He moved his hand to encompass another large stack of books. “These are from Texas.”  

He shook his head, sorrow etching his face.

“I can’t keep up, Camille Cordova. There are just too many books being banned right now. And for the most insipid reasons.” He pointed at random books in the piles. “This one for using the pronoun ‘they’ instead of 'he' or 'she'. This one for writing about same-sex marriage. This one for explaining to teenagers the importance of birth control. This one because it talks about the struggles of Black Americans enslaved in the south. This book was written by a feminist.” He shook his head again, and looked back at me. “More books have been banned in the last twenty years than have been banned in all of history.”

Benedictine’s desk had been hidden behind the stacks of books. We rounded the corner and he sat down in his chair, and sighed, defeated. “And those are not all of them.”

He reached into his desk and pulled out a laptop computer, which he plopped on his desk, and opened the cover, coaxing the machine out of its sleep.

To say I was surprised would have been an understatement. A laptop?

He swivelled the screen towards me. Title after title scrolled down the page.

“These are the banned books that only appear electronically.” He turned the screen back towards himself, shutting the lid. “So many books. I’m falling behind.”

I pointed to the quill and ink.

“You write out the list by hand?”

He nodded.

I pointed towards the laptop. “Why not use that?”

He shook his head, looking from the computer to the ledger.

“That's not how it's done. It’s always been written by hand. I must continue the tradition.”

“But, if you used the computer …”

“Yes, it is faster. But it is impermanent. Without the technology to support it — electricity, the internet, a fast wifi connection — everything could and would be lost, forever, never to be recorded and saved.”

“You could print out your lists every day, that way —”

“No, Camille Cordova, that is not the way it is done. I will continue to use the methods of recording that have always been used.”

“I could help you.” I said.

This was not solely because I could empathize with Benedictine’s predicament, but also because of my innate curiosity. I wanted to explore the stacks, and read every ledger, and learn why each book had been banned.  

Benedictine smiled at me.  

“Thank you for the offer of assistance, but I have always done this job alone. Besides, I already told you this place doesn’t exist. Good-bye Camille Cordova.”

*****

“Are you alright?” asked a voice. “I called nine-one-one. They should be here any minute.

I opened my eyes and looked around. I was in the library, laying of the floor, On Revolution beside my outstretched hand.

“What happened?” I asked.

The woman looking at me shrugged. “I have no idea. I found you here, lying in the aisle. You were unconscious, so I called for help.”

I tried to remember what I had been doing. Something about banned books. It was all foggy and indistinct in my brain.

“There was a little old man …” I said.

The woman shook her head, looking around. “Nope. Not when I got here. You were alone, just laying here. I thought you were dead.”

The EMTs arrived within minutes, examining me. They could find nothing outwardly wrong with me, but decided that I needed to go to the hospital, just to make sure.

As I was being strapped to the gurney, when a wizened old head poked its way around the end of the aisle. He was so familiar. From my dream. It was him.

“Benedictine,” I said.

He smiled, disappearing from sight.