I’ve always liked books. But who would’ve thought it would become an unhealthy obsession too? and it’s not just that i love to collect these books, not for their covers no, i like the words in them too. In this essay i will. If ever there was a metaphor hiding in these amassed wealth of knnowledge and subjective lived experience of the world just sitting in here i fear i might have been blind to it, for they say wealth is built analogous overtime compounding into some arbitrary sum of a value that is appreciable only to the investor. Verging on financial ruin, i face my literary passions as they seek to deprive me of what could’ve been better reflected saved in a bankaccount, or better invested in worthy rewarding financial instruments. It however, is becoming increasingly difficult to manage these for they don’t just sit their idling but are invariably subject to collecting dust and cobwebs over their exposed layers and edges. Before i knew it there they were stacked full of multiple order matrices and continually bursting with the need for better shelter, and building towers of highstoreyed columns weren’t helping us as they fell clumsily off keeling over pathetically into the floor when gravity or the earth’s rotation skewed their resting position, off they fell one or two atop these poorly built towers thudding and crashing to the floor. And these poor paperbacks they were, old some used even if mostly unread with ubroken spines and tidy covers, i couldn’t be at peace, couldn’t ward off the hurt it was causing to them and giving me the unforseen remorse of not caring for them well enough. And so it had to be that we had to find ourselves something reliable and with space enough that could fill the ample quantity of these books to fit neatly and create a safespace for their repose. Turns out horizontally stacking them building vertical towers wasn’t the best way to go about addorsing them, and they belonged in a better shape when we arranged them all vertically facing across these horizontal shelves (or rather planks as i see it). Being quite barebones and lacking in gargoyles at the ends to present them from pushing against each other and the books at the end again being yanked down, it seemed to be going pretty well, until i had to move houses and rearranged the shelves in another wall facing another direction, this time facing east against the original facing north (which too pulled the books down from the eastern flank when the seasons transitioned and the earth moved away from the sun), but instead this time it was that the top shelf was unprotected and since there was just blank space to its right, the books dangerously at the edge would be sure to drop dead any moment when the pull got too much to stay put. Over a few months i took to removing the ends off books, and just leaving one thick hardback resting diagonally slant over the others to prevent further mishaps. I had enough of them falling over and giving us unsolicited jumpscares, because it only meant that we weren’t really paying them enough attention to have acted proactively or been prudent about the situation. And I couldn’t put up with that no more. So we took to this time getting rid of books rather than keep pushing them against each other and exploiting the wee bit of space left in these choked shelves. But luckily, this time in the new place we got an auxillary prebuilt readymade wooden seemingly grander shelf, which we have took to adorning with more academic and nonfiction and study material mostly as well as some old miscellany and alongwith our old hovering invisible mounts where the everyman’s library section, it has come to a point where everyone can belong and feel safe and sound where they are, without the fear of getting ejected or unwarranted deportations to hell. They somehow find a way and love to stay grounded. Well, i’m not of the impression that i’m happy and satisfied just yet though, when is a person ever content enough? we are only driven by the continued lust for more and more, not just enough would sate us from one day claiming you’ve now had enough and would like to retire, your ambition nor your desire nor your wealth. No amount would be enough. And if it’s not wealth in the form of liquid money, or of their translated assets, a tangible instrument somehow just feels better to grasp, hold in one’s hands and cherish the fruits of labour. If all the sum of knowledge of the world wasn’t enough it must be that we’re precluded from knowing more, and by owning it we try to placate ourselves that atleast owning the vast wealth of it should yield us contentment as we strive towards it. I do kind of feel lost in between these books, as i stack and arrange them, this time having attempted to line them up by the precedence of author and then publisher, library edition, but mostly succeeded in bringing the same sized ones together so they’ll fit just right between one another. I never at first assumed the value of a book would be much more than its constituent words in themselves, more than their literary value more than the magesterial worth of the author, more than what it brings to the reader it seems they have trading value too which was unlikely a disposition from which i could view these things, it took me enough time in life to realize that at the end of it all a person is only as good as their financial worth they bring to their family, country and the world, but dialled down its just family which is keenly aware and anticipant of your individual worth, and how much value you bring into the household, and hence you’re better off through experience or otherwise to measure yours up against your peers, whom you’ll be competing against in the job market, anyhoo back to books, it might be that i couldn’t grapple with the bare minimum fact of which they were being sold to me at, or the intrinsic value of their asset’s worth with which i could trade them for money myself, just as it was transacted unto me, and that each of them carried their own tag, and now discounting which leaves us with: older not always the best and rarer not always the better, prettier not always the quality, cheaper not always the better print, all these tradeoffs are a sum worth of experiential wisdom you gain at the intermediate stage of your whatever hobby, passion or obsession you practise over a period of time. To know these books carried a cost was perhaps always present, but never addressed at its truest sense until i had enough of them, but knowing it today doesn’t take away the fact that they will always be more than their monetary price, since if ever there was anything in the world which was unliving (sorry hurts me to say that but nonhuman might be better, we’ll come to that later) that held more value than any price could place it under, it would have to be books. Ofcourse, it goes without saying that their presence alone has the potential to make one lonely individual feel less so, they just sit idly watching us be depraved or not, but at any moment they’ll just be there for us always not casting judgemental looks or scorn or any other unhelpful thing, they just are there mute sentinels with innumerable voices beholding all that was, and supporting us uninterfering and alive and , if any one needed a solace they are here for us. Maybe it’s also about trying to find some sense of order in and simultaneously an act of defiance against the chaotic mess of daily work. I guess any material object would satisfy the same conditions as that, or supporting the rituals of consternation and bringing it to rest, giving us all a break from the banal seeming dreariness of life, but books more so than any other such object brings me to that solaceful joy in which our solitude isn’t made unfavourable to us. But I ain’t no hoarder of books, commiting the sin of there’s a japanese word for it—tsundoku, as my obsession is in the belief that i’m curating them one at a time, carefully in discrete orders of magnitude as opposed to the purported term’s buying things in bulk. It’s warm presence might be therapeutic on some days, ignorable on others, sentinels of our bleak soul on any given day, standing guard and shining on courage and hope. Companions of mute vibrancy sheltering the lonely gaining the length of our time shouldering us at all the vicissitudes of it gently nudging us on and watching it go by across decades. Old and frayed they become, and more so these days even the new ones turn yellow in a month, i hardly tend to go for new copies since the older used ones seem much more echonomical and are often better produced. And the owner’s worst fear manifests as silverfish but it is manageable if one knows the right things to care. Dust is the worst though. Dust and humid air can make in under a month, turn a pristine new copy smelling freshly spat out of the press with its nacre glow parched, worn and frayed.

Anyway, it’s not without some future ambition that we continue to wonder in awe, or not, continue to ponder and search for more of them, more of the distinct voices and stories we haven’t heard of before, in some quest for this yearn we feel this continual yearn would fortuitously yield those very same unheard of results, when we find, discover or is revealed to us those objects of desire by absolute strangers, acquaintances or friends, the former of which scouring the length and breadth of the internet, rabbitholes of intellectual and literary forums, i’m not of the impression that the more obscure aren’t always as great too i have seen but mostly it’s a risk and well worth the risk to take a chance on those nobodies, those authors who haven’t been noticed, couldn’t be noticed or have been overlooked by time and people, and to discover them anew and share them with the world too is something worth doing. The very subjective thing that art is, it is frivolous of one’s time and effort and money to spend our breath on judging books and their authors, and most of all ranking them, in some very subjective measurement or analyses of order which often belies what is, seen to be distasteful and egregious. Indeed most aficionados of art know the pomposity and prentiousness fostered inherently by having more than the other person, whether in terms of financial or other wealth is by its nature, is simply farcical, and only harbours resentment and thus hinders progress, in making strides that expands one’s purview for which we’re indeed here in the first place, and one does better to be cognizant of falling into the trap of assigning domineering superiority to the creators of it than maybe the less pernicious of that of the works itself. But one would find beyond what’s facile and brute and prudish and gauche in matters of taste and tradition, of culture and refined prosperity, this pathetic snobbery is going to somehow always find its way felt across the peripheries of not just art and culture, but into very such similar disciplines as where one’s limits are challenged by merit, and further by competition, because one might’ve observed similar things happening in the scientific fields as well. And by continuing to challenge the powerful, for the established order will always lay down the narrative as it is meant to be, history that must be what is said to be, but in turn we seek answers to ourselves, and to the people around, who collectively question the order of right and wrong, and to upend the laid out truths with their purported veracity of a dictum, which we must adhere to whether we consent or like it or not. There are indeed some, if not most, who consume art just passively, for many reasons, and i shan’t be the judge of, but most people don’t have enough time or can’t be bothered to elicit any care other than engaging in the activity (or any) just for the sake of it: that is intended as merely entertainment which is not to be taken seriously or more than at face value: and indeed most entertainment is made for the passive viewer or consumer of it just as any fastfood might be, and for all those myriad reasons i can’t blame either the creator of it nor the viewer but as always the thing (art/work) itself seeing as there is an audience for everything from the lowest to the highest of brows. Because life isn’t meant to be merely a pursuit of hedonism we tell ourselves that all this suffering we go through to get somewhere we like is worth the journey’s tribulations. In this vainly constructed mausoleum of hope and desire, sit here the artidotes to our woes.

I might’ve started out being a collector, but in time have been turned into a curator. And if anything all these human imperfectons make for some fine interesting stories, that’s the best thing that can come out of it. But how do we ensure we stave off the less than mediocre works? how are we to judge or know? by knowing that some of these have atleast a dedicated group which has enough reasonable argument, and will come to its support, in turn this makes the library the apotheosis of the greatest works known (and some unknown) to the world. Oftentimes it’s random recommendations found lurking in the wild, it’s not the author which we feel the urge to own an entire oeuvre of, but less popular phenomenal works that don’t get read, and are also by accident read by the random stranger who has decided to risk their time to take a chance at it and has been rewarded, and in the process of this research going over the book’s background we love to get a little lost inadvertently so, and one takes us to another and so on, and suddenly we’re staring at a bunch of similar titles all equally intriguing to be explored. Likewise we may return the favour. Is this personal enterprise a reflection of your identity? Nevertheless, the library intends to be exhaustive yet is ever complete, and is as extensive as my searching has taken me afar where there are still more beyond the countours i attempt to breach. Simpler the better we figured—my mother took care of sanctioning the kind of shelves we would get. If the contention that the well read person is able to think in manifold ways the corollary that a nonreader can only think in their own way must also hold true. That we can continue to be in awe that these people existed in this very world once or currently and will is incredible, and partaking of their shared wisdom is our good fortune. That such beauty exists, and could exist tucked between these pages in their words (which don’t make much sense at first glance) and when stringed together in the form of sentences, evocative of the human condition and nature’s universal microcosm contained in it.

“When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o’ clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather’s and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it’s rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father’s. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”

All that aside, what we earn from the continual debates between the powers that be and the structures we seek to critique and defy, is more than just sending a message, because without it our job would be much simpler than we can know, because it would be to just do our jobs and retire to our room to never have to read a book for what it contains, the words. To me books and music are also the primary time capsules, or memory archiving repositories in which we may store part of the recorded sensations, vignettes and events of our life inside with no one else noticing or needing to know.

Would i’ve been financially richer? better off than if weren’t to collect books. Defnitely yes. Why would anyone say no to more money, and let go of it? I don’t really know. Perhaps it is the smell of those dead leaves of paper, or it must be the various pretty editions or the words in them all together, who knows. But i don’t regret it. If there’s anything i don’t regret it might be this. Many times as we’ve seen it is the subject or the narrative or the characters which fascinate us draws us into having it for us, either it must’ve been we found it too relatable to contemporary life, our own personal and curiously mirroring our life itself in many ways, or the situations, all of which warrant an immediate requisition. Breadth isn’t easy at all to beget the entirety of, insofar as one can only strive for it, and of such gnosis is but quite the feat at the individual’s side seeing as we live in the era of specializations where the greater portion of professions and professionals go depth first into their opted discipline as they involve sacrificing elision for depth. And in navigating these complexities, we find ourselves growing with every genuine discussion heartfelt conversations, and come into something new and more than what we thought we could, or was possible then, and in that we find this joyous profundity behind which lies much work, effort and cogitation. Because it seems life is too short to be able to get it all, read and find and have it all in your head, as there will always be more than a lifetime’s share of its prosody to go through it all, but alas we can’t help but try.

For instance i’ve seen someone i know do this kind of thing, where he watches any and every movie he may find with a title which catches his attention and goes ahead and watches it, and ends up watching so many of the same identical kind of film in genre inasmuch as you cannot tell one from another anymore since there’s been too many similar stories being consumed at length and are quite forgettable in their substance, and i can’t blame him because all he needs is to while away time in leisure, and in that all these stories come together and become a conflated mess, nothing is remembered, held in its own, it is quickly forgotten the moment it ends and he moves on. It is easy passive entertainment. A lot might be lost in the meanwhile, but it doesn’t matter to him, for all he needs is to be engaged. But also he doesn’t pretend to know more too, more than he can chew or has any plan to. The phenomenon of good taste is often thus ascribed to those who actually for their part are participating in the engagement of the art, and by way of doing so are active viewers of that art, then it is that art isn’t always just what the author has decided to prescribe but is a duplex mode of communication which is established between the art and its consumer, who has become the participator where they turn as important as what is being seen. To the person earlier however the principle of least effort always follows, and not caring a damn thing about good taste, thinks the art is contingent upon the ability to keep him from becoming bored or falling asleep. He is an active viewer too in his own way though, since he participates within the contours of the thrilling movie itself, where various plots are explored and revealed in their intelligent plotting. It might then be garnered that good taste requires effort, and to get there one needs time and an instinct which develops over such time spent in engaging actively with art, not necessarily unentertaining ones but with it not being the sole intention of one’s choice, and one should be prepared to be bored, challenged and most of all upset, not always in a bad way, and at the end of it, one needn’t have actually enjoyed the work itself, but in having become challenged by it there might’ve been some little part disrupted, or altered by the end, and some strange external feeling one doesn’t understand, and to become caught in its struggle to bring out something on the verge of change, one then at the very least is able to appreciate what they’ve digested in its unbridled whole, and maybe can appreciate the art for what it stands for, stands to do, and can be respected for what its worth, appreciation for its creator grows, for several things that might even be just parts of that whole, if it meant something at all, and this spectrum may exist from outright rejection and disdain (wanting to burn the book) to utter celebration of the work (desiring to sleep with the author), everything is welcomed as long as its genuine and sincere. For any that to happen ofcourse the conditions need to be conducive for the viewer, and a bad day can’t always be outrun by good art. But i cannot deride someone like my friend for how they choose to view things, as i couldn’t fully understand it nor their argument for it. But indeed there is such a way to go about viewing the work itself, a kind of disciplined effort that helps inform their opinions which may not be entirely earnest or appropriate if they aren’t completely immersed or involved in it, and that their opinions would only reflect the kind of respect to the work itself by giving it the right attention. In another life, i might’ve ended up a critic of sorts, art/literary/film, as those who cannot always create may make for a critic, just like those who cannot do, teach.

Maybe i lacked some moral courage back in the day, in my formative years as i was kneedeep in visual art and other than participating in a few lacklustre essay competitions out of boredom than it would have given me the insight into the possibility of exploring the same in the form of literature and language, not to create it for myself as devouring those out there, but all being equally tedious truth be told: to create something original scares me away from indulging when i read our competition that is the better folks out there. Also with language, we’ve to (forced to) strike a balance between abstract and coherence. We find there isn’t anything new to be created, and even the times we think we do are again pastiches of unknown works. Navigating the informational flux of the world i must portend that it affords no greater luxuries as which might exist, of which we are yet to find or be accorded the privilege of doing so. we are subject to the customary parables and platitudes that come our way, but that’s only surface level, and one must go through these throes to land in the much rewarding discussions around these works of art: only to say just these would be naive: isn’t it all paradoxical enough? : is it problematic, is it too anachronistic? is it too racist, or regressive? is it too pristine, is it too minimalstic, is it too clean is it too boring is it too obscure is it too purple is it tad too overwritten is it too weird is it difficult or as they say overwrought? But which of all these ‘issues’ we might have can be attributed to the author itself or the work which might’ve demanded it? It is all going to be problematic, in each their own way, but that’s the very point of it and since there is no one way to interpret these things we have this abundance of lived experience staring at us imperiously into our souls as we ogle at them shaking our head. I’ll show myself out now, thanks.

I’ll probably never be rich financially as i would like to, but i do feel pretty rich enough with these around. Is this complacency or is it my idea of sufficiency, of happiness as everlasting as the quest for acquiring these till i exist of which this idea is the truth. And these books i will fight for till i last. What have i to show for my existence? Money can’t last forever, but the reductio ad absurdum of the compendium of our endeavour can. But if i were to ruminate further, compartively am i more content than before? that would be an affirmative yes. What is truly vanity to the observer here, has become part of my self actualization. Even so, doing it inspite of therein lies the fun or pleasure, no? But need i more? Maybe so if i can manage it. The interminable bookshelf is as much a work in progress as we are. We shall see.

the library when it was first installed the library when it was first installed