The Power of Books, or Why I Don’t Own a Kindle

I don’t own a Kindle. I don’t want a Kindle. I don’t believe they’re the future of books, and I have no use for one. Before I explain why, though, let me concede that I do understand that they have a few perfectly valid uses.

Recently, while talking about the enormous novel Invisible Man in English III AP, the discussion turned to Ellison’s use of a single word: “opportunity.” While the students and I thumbed through our books, furiously searching for occurrences of the word, searching for a pattern in the text, a girl at the back who had been reading the book on her Kindle raised a hand and said, “I’ve got them all right here. Kindle lets me search the text.” I was dumbfounded. For the purposes of scholarly interaction with a novel, an e-reader could act as an immediately accessible concordance to any text. What a boon!

Similarly, I have an acquaintance who has spent the last few years of her life laboring over her doctoral thesis, and she squeezes in a few minutes of work anywhere and any time she can. The challenging part of that arrangement, of course, is having the thousands of pages of reference materials that she might need at any given moment readily available for her perusal. She explained to me that she has loaded all of those documents into her Kindle, and it is her personal reference library for working when she’s not at home. This seems like a fantastic idea.

Of course, the paragraphs above are about the kinds of books used for research and academia. For many people, though, the “book vs. digital” debate isn’t about research at all; it’s about leisure reading. They wonder whether the Kindle will replace their trusty, well-thumbed copies of their favorite novels.  A relatively small percentage of the books I read are the subjects of academic debate. They’re mostly just for my personal enjoyment. In this context, I just love books…real books. I carry them around, and people ask me what I’m reading. Many interesting conversations have begun this way. I write in the margins, and years later I can see what I was thinking and how I reacted to the events I read. I lend them to friends, and the physical passage of a book from one hand to another carries far more weight than a simple recommendation to download this or that file. I browse book stores for first editions and signed copies of my favorite novels, and my personal library grows constantly. My collection has not only monetary value; it is also a record of ideas with which I’ve interacted, roads I have traveled in my mind. One day, my collection will be passed on to another generation of readers.

Let me relate a couple of anecdotes that illustrate my point.

On the bookshelf at my house, there’s a hardcover copy of a novel called The Monarch of Deadman Bay by Roger Caras. It’s a good book, but it’s not great. It’s the life story of a Kodiak bear. It’s on my shelf today because, for as long as I can remember, it’s always been in my house. When I was a child, there were a few books in our house, but my parents didn’t keep a personal library or anything. The Monarch of Deadman Bay, though, was one of the relatively few “adult” books we had in the house. My father had read it. I don’t know where he got it, and he and I never talked about it, but when I was old enough to handle it (about 13 years, as I recall), I read and enjoyed the book. When I moved out of my parents’ house, I asked them if I could take it with me. I don’t know if they understood why; in fact, I’m quite sure that they had both forgotten they even owned it. Now, it stands on my bookshelf, the only volume in my library that both my father and I have read. I don’t mean that we both read books with the same title; we both read THIS book. My copy of The Monarch of Deadman Bay is a story my father and I have both experienced. We’ve both held those very pages between our fingers and followed the adventures of that Kodiak bear. One day, when my father is gone, The Monarch of Deadman Bay will be one of the clearest symbols of the connection he and I share. It just wouldn’t be the same if he and I had read the same electronic file on a Kindle.

As I said earlier, I collect signed editions of novels I love. Yes, they’re relatively few and far between. Yes, the search for a reasonably priced copy can be a rather long one. None of this deters me, though. Each time I open a signed copy of one of my favorite novels, I know that I’m handling a volume that has also been handled by its creator. My connection to the author and the text takes on a deeper level of meaning. In a few truly fantastic moments, I have had the privilege of meeting some amazing authors and chatting with them while they signed my copies of their books for me. To date, I’ve met Tim O’Brien, Sherman Alexie, Sandra Cisneros, Karl Marlantes, Gary Paulsen, and Tea Obreht. Each of them has signed a book (or two, if I’m lucky) for me. Talking to these authors about their work in person is a kind of interaction, scholarship, and good will unlike any other in the literary world, and it’s all predicated on the idea of book signings. Without books, I seriously doubt authors would hold events where they met with readers to click their Kindles.

Finally, I love having books in my home. Those of you who’ve visited me know that I have two six-foot bookshelves in my living room and an entire wall of books in my foyer that reaches up to the ceiling. To sit on my sofa is to be surrounded by hundreds of books. Guests in my house often get up and pore over the bookshelves, looking for familiar titles or wondering what I’ve been reading. When they find a title they know, we often share wonderful conversations about books we’ve both read. When they see something of interest, I’m happy to lend out a copy so we can talk about it later. As Micki’s kids become increasingly aware of the books on my shelves, I want them to see that books–and by association, knowledge, art, and culture–have value and hold an important place in my heart, my mind, and my home. A collection of files on an e-reader just can’t do that.

So go ahead and use your Kindle, if you like, but please for the love of God, stop asking me why I don’t have one and explaining how it’s just so much more convenient than my “old-fashioned” books. My love of books transcends a love of words and stories. I love the books themselves. They have a value for me that electronic text never can. If you want to talk about this, come on over to my living room, and let’s discuss it amongst the books.

How To Lose Friends and Anger People, or The Truth

In the third section of Orwell’s 1984, O’Brien explains to Winston, “We control matter because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull.” He’s arguing that anything can be true, as long as the individual in question wholeheartedly believes it. A person’s perception of the world, in fact his or her entire worldview, depends upon what he or she believes is true.

Here’s a small example. For centuries, people believed the world was flat. Scholarly books said the world was flat. Teachers taught their students that the world was flat. Any person you stopped on the street would have told you the world was flat. In fact, the world WAS flat.

I can see you shaking your head and muttering, “No it wasn’t, you idiot; it was spherical, just like it is today.” But step outside of yourself for a moment. For the people who lived in centuries past, the world WAS flat because they believed it. That was their truth. Everyone in their world believed it. They acted on it. Their world view encompassed it, and their Earth was flat. Many other ideas were true, in their times, because people believed them. Before modern medicine and the discovery of micro-organisms, the Miasma Theory stated that disease was caused by “bad air.” Before the discovery of genetics, the theory of Maternal Impression stated that the thoughts and emotions of a pregnant mother affected the physical appearance of her offspring (see Genesis 30:37-39). Countless other examples abound. Yes, they were wrong, factually speaking, but that’s not the issue at hand. The issue I’m trying to breach here is this: How do we decide what is true? Example after example of “truths” being proven false indicates that what is true for any one individual is inextricably tied up with what he or she believes.

Are you with me so far?

Good.

Because now I want to talk about religion.

I find myself increasingly annoyed by people who insist that their religion is the one true path to righteousness, the one true way to know the Greater Being, the one true recipe for a holy and blessed life, or the one true means to reach a blissful afterlife. They’ll insist that the tenets of their religion are TRUE without taking into account the point I’ve just made: truth is tied to belief.

Since I’m most familiar with Christianity, I’ll use it for my example. Don’t read this as an attack on Christian beliefs. I just don’t know enough about other faiths to write about them without risking some serious errors. So. Christians believe that roughly 2000 years ago, the Son of God was born into human form, was sacrificed through crucifixion, and through his sacrifice, he forgave the sins of humankind. (I know there’s more to it than that, but those are the basics.) If you ask any practicing Christian whether those statements are TRUE, he or she will undoubtedly tell you that they are. If you then proceed to ask how he or she KNOWS they’re true, the Christian will undoubtedly say “It’s in the Bible.” If you ask how he or she knows the Bible contains the truth, the Christian will say “I believe it.” Bingo. Truth is tied to belief.

In fact, none of us who are alive today were alive when the Bible was written. There is no more proof that the Bible contains the actual, historical truth than there is for Beowulf or The Epic of Gilgamesh. (Oh, man. I just FEEL myself losing friends here…but stick with me, okay?) I’m not saying that the Bible isn’t true. I’m saying that we all need to think about where the truth comes from. This leads to a philosophical idea called epistemology. The principle questions of epistemology are “Where does knowledge come from?” and “How do we know what we know?” It’s the study of truth and the source of truth.

So. As I said before, I’m not telling anyone that the Bible is untrue. What I’m saying is that some people believe the Bible with their whole hearts and souls, and for those people the Bible is true. Others don’t believe it, and for them, it’s just a book. Before you write me angry comments on this post, participate in a little mental exercise with me. Imagine a holy book for a religion other than yours. Take your pick: the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Qur’an, the Tao Te Ching, the Kitáb-i-Aqdas. Choose any you like, as long as it’s part of a religious tradition that you don’t practice. Now, ask yourself this question, “Does this book contain the truth?”

I imagine many heads shaking side-to-side: no. If that’s you, please realize that there are hundreds of thousands of people in the world who believe that the book you’re currently dismissing as fiction is the sanctified holy truth. For Muslims, the words of the Qur’an are every bit as true as the words of your own holy scripture are to you. Why? Because they believe it. Christians find truth in the Bible, followers of Hinduism see truth in the Bhagavad Gita, and believers in Bahá’í find truth in the Kitáb-i-Aqdas. Their families raise them to believe it, their communities reinforce it, their cultures treasure it, and they invest their souls in it.

See where I’m going with this? I’ve said it before in this post, and I say it again. Truth is tied to belief. What that means (and many people refuse to acknowledge this) is that DIFFERENT PEOPLE CAN HAVE DIFFERENT TRUTHS.

With that in mind, I wish people would think twice before they tell believers of other faiths that their beliefs are wrong. I wish they would stop trying to convert each other. I wish they would realize that every religious tradition on Earth is as valid as every other. I wish they would believe what they’ve been raised to believe and let other people do the same.

Could we do that? I believe so. All it takes is for each of us to step outside of ourselves and see that no matter what the issue (science, as discussed earlier; religion, as discussed in the last few paragraphs; or pretty much anything else), truth, at its core, lies in belief.

O’Brien was right.

I’m back!

Hello, friends.

It’s been a while.

I had a tremendous time in Austria, and I intend to blog about it at great length, as soon as I have time to take a breath. Currently, I’m recovering from my last trip and preparing for my next one, which will take me to Corpus Christi from Wednesday through the weekend.

In case you’re wondering, I did get to see that fountain of Pallas Athena…

I’m off to MN.

On Wednesday, I’ll be headed to Minnesota to hang out with my parents and brothers for a week. I’m looking forward to baking cookies, trimming the tree, exchanging gifts, going to midnight mass, ice fishing, etc, etc. If you’ve been following my blog for the past couple of years, you know that some parts of the Christmas tradition just aren’t negotiable at the Lindner house. I’ll tell you all about them when I return. I’ll bring pictures, too. Promise.

Meanwhile, I’ve uploaded another song. It’s “The Captain” by Kasey Chambers. This song rips my heart out. It’s so broken and real and beautiful. You may not like what the song says, but you have to admire how well it captures a particular emotion that we all feel at some time or another during one of the weaker moments of our lives. Beautiful.

Enjoy your Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, season, or whatever you choose to call this time spent with family.

New Song Added

I’ve added Kasey Chambers’ “Pony” to the download box at the right. I love this song.

Why aren’t more artists recording songs of this quality instead of shaking their heads like yeah?

I’m in a bad mood.

Do not read the following entry unless you want to listen to me cry in my beer.

You have been warned.

It happens every year, about this time. People start looking forward to Christmas. Kids get excited about Santa Claus. Stores start playing festive music on the in-house speakers. Trees suddenly become hosts for hundreds of tiny twinkly lights. I get pissy.

I know that this is one of the side-effects of living so far from my parents and siblings. They’re 1200 miles away, where there’s snow, ice on the lakes, and other wintry scenery. I’m in Texas, where it’s 50 degrees and raining nonstop. All around me, my friends are gathering with their parents, spouses, children and other relatives to bake cookies, write letters to Santa, and go Christmas shopping. Every day after work, I go home and hang out with my cat, unless WrongFoot and BigT call and invite me to dinner. It’s a great time when we hang out, and I love them for inviting me, but three single guys eating Buffalo Wild Wings isn’t the same as spending time with family.

This will be my ninth Christmas season in Texas, and it’s been by far the most difficult. For the first few years that I lived here, Bug and her family treated me as if I was one of their own. It wasn’t the same as being home, but felt pretty good. In the next few years, WrongFoot and I shared an apartment, and although we weren’t family, we were two single guys who were both in the same boat, and we could commiserate. Since buying the house in August, though, I am totally alone when I go home in the afternoon. I see less of my friends this time of year because they, understandably, are at home with their own families.

The house that was supposed to be a home is turning out to be more of an isolation chamber.

All of this is compounded by the fact that I’m REALLY tired of being single, and it doesn’t seem that I can do a damn thing about it. I swear to god that the next person who tells me to “be patient” because “the right one will come along when you least expect it” is going to get a swift kick in the ass. There are women in my life who I’d love to date, but they’re not interested. There are women who are interested in dating me (I suspect), but they aren’t who I’m looking for. It’s getting extremely old.

So. If you see me with creased brow and grumbling lips, don’t be surprised. I’m tired of lots of things. I’m kind of pissed at the universe. I’m jealous of the people around me. I’m not in a happy place.

My Name

For the past few years, I’ve read The House On Mango Street with my students in honors English II. One of the introductory activities I have designed is a writing exercise that’s modeled after one of the vignettes in the book wherein Eserperanza, the main character, contemplates her own name. Today, while my students were working on drafts of their “My Name” vignettes, I wrote my own.

Note to Mom and Dad: In the novel Esperanza dislikes her name and decides to rename herself. I’ve decided to follow suit. Please don’t be offended. Although I didn’t like my name for a long time, I’ve kind of grown into it in the past ten years or so.

In England, my name is a nickname for “Chancellor,” which is a high-ranking government position. Sounds powerful, although I’ve never felt especially powerful, myself. I don’t know if it’s an old-fashioned nickname or if they still use it. I’ve never been to England. In America, though, my name means “I can’t pronounce this correctly on the first day of class.” It’s an old name, a slow name, the kind of name that makes people think of wrinkly retired men, not kids or college students or thirty-something professionals. It is like the number seven, one syllable too long to fit in with its neighbors. It is opera music playing on a radio that’s meant for blues guitar.

My father read stacks of Louis L’amour when he was younger, and I somehow ended up named after one of his books, a novel about a cowboy called “Chancy.” Thank God mom tossed a U in there. Chancy is a worse name than Chauncey, any day. I read the novel a while back, out of some sense of debt or homage. It wasn’t very good. Chancy is a super-macho, tough-guy, cowboy type. He has to track down some people who rustled his cattle or some such. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d like poetry. He probably can’t even define the term “Christian allegory.” He is not me, but sadly I am him.

I wonder what that cowboy was like when he got old. I wonder if he even lived to BE old, or did some desperado shoot him in the back on his 33^rd birthday? If he did live to be old, I wonder if he ever read Moby Dick or learned to play hackey-sack. Did he visit Paris? Keep a journal? Fall in love? The book ends when Chancy is a young man, so I suppose I’m free to be me, now.

At school, teachers never knew how to say my name on the first day. I’d just wait for them to pause, crinkle up their foreheads, and look a bit baffled. Then, I’d raise my hand and admit that I was called “Chauncey.” I discovered that the joy of having both a weird name and red hair is that you can blush REALLY hard when people say your name wrong and you have to correct them.

These days, most people who hear my name immediately think of Geoffrey Chaucer, who wrote surprisingly dirty stories in Middle English. If people only knew what was in the Canterbury Tales, I think they’d stop assigning it to kids. As for me, I haven’t written a book yet. When I do, it won’t be as dirty as Canterbury Tales. Probably.  Either way, I don’t much like the connection people seem to draw between Chaucer and me, even if I am an English teacher. I’d rather be named after Jimi Hendrix or Walt Whitman. On the other hand, I do kind of look like a Geoff. Yes. I think Geoffrey James Whitman will do.