I've hatched a plan to read every book that I own. I call this adventure Bookshelf Zero. This is a multi-year project. With 177 unread books on my shelves, it will be a little while until I've finished everything. The number of books is intimidating enough. Throw in the level of difficulty with some of these and the challenge gains a whole new level. I just read 13 pages of Swann's Way. That's the first book in his massive In Search of Lost Time. Books 2-7 are part of that 177. The Russian's, dense pieces of philosophy, a huge book on the history of the Whig party in the United States. These are all books that I will read if I'm to reach Bookshelf Zero.
I've already resolved to buy zero books in 2017. I managed to go a whole year without buying a book a few years ago. I went on a bit of a book buying binge right before that year started. I'm doing the same thing now. Part of it was buying skinny books to help me reach 52 for the year (a goal that gets more and more difficult to realize with every passing day), but part of it is getting my fill of book buying before the year is out. I'm still trying to decide if I really like to read or if I just read so I can justify buying more books.
What the hell was I thinking is a question I have asked myself more than a few times as I've looked over my list of unread books. Why do I have this need to pull every "hard" book that has ever been written into my life? What am I trying to prove? Then I look at my desire to pick up Capital in the Twentieth Century or a Brief History of Time (I can probably pick them up cheap at one of the two recently opened used book stores...) and realize I'm just doing more of the same. Buying these super hard books gives me some kind of boost. Reading them doesn't really seem to be the point.
Bookshelf Zero is about actually reading books that I have bought, but a big part of it is actually reading these complex, dense, and less than riveting tomes that I bought way back when to feel better about myself. I really like reading Proust, but I can't help but feel that part of my motivation to read this kind of challenging literature is rooted in my desire to prove my worth. Just who I'm trying to impress is a trickier question.
Reading is the one thread that runs through every stage of my life. I have always read. Always. I read fewer books when I was a graduate student, but I was reading papers relevant to my research almost every day. I always manage to find time to read. I aspire to read some of the hardest books around. Why bother? What does this drive to read Proust or Tolstoy say about me? I can't help but think that getting to the root of my drive to read, and what I want to read, will help me figure out just who I am and what I'm about.
I have this urge to write about my reading exploits. I like to think that this compulsion is related to this need to figure out just who I am. It's seems silly to be talking about self-discovery when I'm 40 years old. But if it's a choice between self-discovery and becoming my father, I'll take delayed self-discovery every time.
The effort to establish some kind of relationship with my father via email is over. I tried. There's nothing more I can do. My dad was here on Saturday. It's the first time he's been to my house in 9 years. I will be surprised if he ever comes back. My father has no interest in building a relationship with me. He's an emotional void. He said almost nothing to me when he was here. He didn't make an effort to talk to either of my kids. He's a waste. He's a liar. He's not worth my time and effort. He's not the kind of person that I want in my life.
I have a very strong fear of becoming my father. I was well on my way, at least in certain respects. My dad seeks to impress others by his acquired knowledge. I have often thought that my book thing may be my version of his WWII obsession. My desire to delve into this reading experience is partially to get to the bottom of my reading motivations. I want to prove to myself that I'm not doing it to impress people. I want to prove to myself that I'm not my father.
I'm not cheating on my wife so that's a good way to not be my father. I'm not a compulsive liar. My Dad's entire life is a lie. It's all a big effort to convince himself that he's not a big loser. He's trying to tell himself that he's a man, that he's important, that he matters. I wanted to build a relationship with him because I wanted to know why he feels that way. He's never going to tell me. He doesn't know himself. He's just a weakling who does all he can to tell himself that he's strong. I intimidate the hell out of him. He's afraid of me. He's afraid of everything.
My dad is afraid that people will see his weakness. He slinks around thinking that people won't notice that's he's constantly afraid of being found out as a terrified little man. He uses women to tell himself that he's a big bad man. He's so pathetic. I kind of think that I want him to acknowledge my superiority. I want to hear him say that I have what he wants. I just want to be better than him. I know that I am. He knows that I am. I want to hear him say it. I want to hear him say that he's happy about it, that he's proud of me. But he had nothing to do with who I am. I am who I am in spite of his presence in my life. I defeated his efforts to hold me back. I'm a constant reminder of his failure. I'm proof of his weakness. He wants to run away and start his life over in Alabama.
He doesn't deserve my love. He deserves my scorn.
And I'm going to read all my books because reading is and always has been central to my life and identity. I'm not trying to prove anything to anybody. I just want to read the books that have endured and defy the passage of time. Books have always been my connection to the world that exists outside of me. I've slowly been able to open myself to that world in other ways. Books will always be part of that connection.
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