(Another
in a series of journals
prompted by my friend David Cooper, who seems to think that just one
more
project on my agenda is fully necessary.
It is a good exercise, but the reality is that I have
always been much
more affected by the people in my life than by any other stimulus. I can much more easily
list the effects of my
friends and relatives than I can elucidate why certain books hold such
meaning
in my life, and now I have wittingly given my friend another idea with
which to
“burden” me. The
list below is not
comprehensive, and probably not even very accurate, but each of these
books
awakened in me some key thought or idea that had previously lain
dormant. I
apologize that most of them are not
“classics” or books with a significant intellectual pedigree, but I
read what I
read.)
Reading
has always held high value in my family.
My mother was a reader, as was my father, though their
choice of
materials was significantly different.
Mom liked to escape to other times and places, enjoyed
plants and
animals, and every once in a while picked up books that would expand
her mind
in interesting ways. Dad
always went for
scientific and mechanical stuff, mostly from the monthly magazines that
he
subscribed to. He
kept up on
developments in the auto industry, of course, and enjoyed carpentry
projects
and such, but he was also fascinated by the predictions of a future
world where
cars could fly and space-age technology was commonplace. They both enjoyed
westerns, and our house was
full of them, though I read very few in that genre.
We read for every possible reason and
seemingly in every possible circumstance.
(I was the first kid in my circle to know that aspirin was
acetylsalicylic acid, because I couldn’t even bear to sit on the toilet
without
reading something.)
David
wanted me to leave out The Bible, considering its ubiquity in
influencing so
much of our generation’s life, but I might at least mention what was,
for me,
an important factor of its style.
Religion aside, I found myself deeply interested in
elements of The
Bible in a literary sense. Part
of my
commitment to being an “old school” guy is, I think, directly related
to having
The Bible as a first piece of literature.
Raised on the King James version, I early fell in love
with the
eloquent, flowery language that it used.
There was something about the verbal pictures that
language painted that
cannot be duplicated. I
never found it
stilted - it seemed the best possible way to describe those events. The characters were so
dramatic that it was
easy to become enamored of them as heroic figures.
Abraham, Moses, David, and even Jesus were
more than messengers of God, they were men of action whose exploits
were
dynamic and admirable. As
literature,
The Bible is a great piece of (dare I say) historical fiction that
opened up a
young person’s imagination in numerous ways.
The drama was inescapable, and a good lesson in how to
tell a powerful
story.
In
grade school, I frequently
received certificates for reading the most books in my class. I once believed that I had
read every book in
the Vienna School library, and I defy anyone to disprove me now. By 5th
& 6th
Grades, I had exhausted all the dinosaur and archeology books they
possessed,
and had moved onto harder works, usually involving historical subjects. About that time, I read Guadalcanal
Diary
by Richard Tregaskis, which affected me greatly.
Here was the account of a battle veteran,
thrust into a very difficult circumstance.
My father was a veteran of the Navy, who talked very
little about his
experiences, even though most of his service took place outside the
battle
zones. Now, I got a
glimpse into the
terrifying world of war, and was astounded to discover that a man could
relate
those experiences, seemingly as they occurred.
The author’s ability to recount all that happened to him,
in an
extremely realistic way, while maintaining his objectivity, was almost
more
than I could imagine. It
was a great
lesson in effective writing. I
doubt
that I consciously considered it at the time, but it seems that it
changed my
life by serving as a reminder that an author owes it to his subject and
his
readers to describe events as passionately as possible while remaining
sufficiently objective to leave out no important detail, and to avoid
being
maudlin. That can
be very difficult to
achieve with some subjects, yet it is necessary.
About
that same time, I read two similar books, Old Yeller
by Fred Gipson and The
White Wolf by someone I’ve long forgotten.
The two are very similar: young men develop strong
relationships with
their “dog”, only to have that relationship destroyed by events beyond
their
control. Even now,
I can still feel the
emotion rising within me as I think about the way these authors
portrayed the relationships. One
character must take the life of his own
pet in order to save it from further degradation, and the other watches
his
long-beloved friend finally taken from him by inexorable time. Both books caused me to
cry, as the memories
are, in fact, causing a tear in my eye as I write this.
(It is impossible to do so without thinking
of my own pets, but particularly of Zach, who I held in my arms as his
life
ebbed away, a result partly of my own doing.)
Both authors told their story in such an effective way
that one was left
with no doubt that they too had suffered this sort of loss. In Old Yeller,
the boy grows into a
man by taking on this awesome and painful responsibility, and in The
White
Wolf, the man is forced to consider that eventually time will
expire for
him as it has for his “pet”. Further,
both books explore the relationship between man and animals, which
transcends
mutual benefit into true friendship, but in which there is always that
element
of mystery that forever goes unresolved.
I think that both books taught me the power of the written
word to evoke
emotion and to subtly ask deeply important questions even when the
style was
simple.
Going
to Jackson Jr. High gave me
an entirely new library to peruse, and the Scholastic Book Service,
where
students could purchase all sorts of interesting reads, as I did with Journey
to the Center of the Earth.
Though
certainly not the current era of teen trash-lit, those days were
clearly
divided between readers and non-readers, as well as those who read
“good” books
and those who didn’t. I
don’t know if
Jules Verne was back in fashion at the time, but I certainly enjoyed
this
improbable story. I
think I already had
enough scientific knowledge to be fully aware that the story was
technically
impossible, but that’s why they call it “fiction”.
The set-up to the adventure was so
matter-of-fact that anything seemed possible.
The story unfolded in such a mysterious manner that it was
compelling,
and I was ready to head for Iceland any day.
I reread the story so many times that I had it nearly
memorized, and
each time was carried along with the flow, just as if it was the first
time.
The
Iliad came out of the Jackson library at about that same time. It was forced of necessity
when our 7th
Grade English teacher insisted on an oral book report.
Exactly why I chose it, I do not recall, but
everything else about the event is crystal clear.
One by one, my male classmates paraded to the
front of the room to tell about their book, which in my memory is
always Mickey
Mantle: Pride of the Yankees.
I do
not even recall my classmates’ response to my choice, but the teacher’s
critique was brief and crushing. I
received an A- because I had committed the unpardonable sin of
mispronouncing
the book’s title (I put the emphasis on the 3rd
syllable) and the
outrageous act (in my teacher’s eyes) of talking “with” my hands. Lost in all this was the
fact that some
mythical blind poet from 27 centuries previous had written this marvel
of
dramatic story-telling, in which the characters were still as lifelike
and
compelling as they had ever been.
The
beauty of his descriptive powers was nearly painful.
I was so captivated, I immediately went back
to the library to check out The Odyssey.
No teacher would EVER change my concept of what was truly
worthwhile,
and I still talk with my hands.
It was
also about that time that I first read George Orwell’s 1984,
which I
recently reread. I
honestly can’t say
exactly how it affected me at the time, but in looking at it again, I
have to
feel that it had a great deal to do with my strong sense that
government must
be limited, and that individuality is essential to a livable world. I am not in terror of it,
but I strongly
rebel against the idea that authority should have the ability to
control our
lives or our minds. (Ironically,
in the
rereading, I kept getting the uneasy feeling that many of our recent
political
leaders may have been indoctrinated on this book, and have used it as a
basis
for gaining power. If
the basic theme is
that an ambivalent majority can easily be ruled by a clever minority
who
controls the information the masses receive, we may be living much more
of
Orwell’s nightmare than we imagine.)
My
father’s step-sister, Mary Francis (Aunt Sissy) was another powerful
influence
in my reading life. At
one point, she
bought me a series of books that included JFK’s Profiles in
Courage. I
don’t really remember the specifics of the
book as much as I remember Kennedy’s passion in describing American
public
servants who epitomized the true meaning of that term.
These men were willing to ignore popular
opinion and risk the wrath of their fellows to transcend the usual
political
infighting in order to make a genuine difference in our lives. I established a strong
feeling that this is
the way politicians should truly act, and that shapes my disappointment
in so
many modern politicians, for whom “gamesmanship” seems to have replaced
public
service. The book
should be mandatory
reading for every person who runs for political office, and a test
should be
given and passed before they would be allowed to proceed.
Aunt
Sissy was also a fan of English mysteries, so it was probably she who
inspired
me to read The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie. By now, the plot has been
redone so many
times by lesser lights that it has become cliché, but in those days it
was
quite clever and original. I
was
impressed at how easily she could tell a story, making it progress
quickly
though gently. It
was also infuriating
in that she could provide every clue necessary for the reader to solve
the
mystery, then gently mislead you into making the incorrect conclusions. I became quite a fan, and
eventually
purchased every one of her books.
Like
any other author, she has had her weak moments, with books that just
didn’t
work very well, but for the most part she is original, creative,
subtle, and
ultimately enjoyable. Thus,
good writing
can be all of that without necessarily dealing with the really big
issues of
life.
My next
big adventure came at the instigation of my Senior English teacher. For some reason, she
decided that we all
needed to do one more book report before graduation, a situation that
aggravated me no end. I
told her
honestly that I thought I had read every book that was worth reading,
and her
stipulation that our report be about a book we were reading for the
first time
placed me at an unnecessary hardship.
I
attempted to read The Hunchback of Notre Dame, one
of the few books in
the PHS library I had not read that seemed interesting, but found it
deadly
ponderous and mind-numbingly dull.
In
desperation, I went back to my teacher, who offered me any of the
paperbacks
she kept on her desk. Most
of these were
modern fiction, which I disdain, but one looked interesting, so decided
to try
it. The book was
enormously complicated,
with characters who had strange names and backstories that I had
obviously
missed out on somehow. It
took me almost
half the book to realize that I was reading the 3rd
volume of a
trilogy! What sort
of teacher would do
this to her students? Place
only volume
3 on her desk?!? By
the time I finished
it, I knew what I wanted for the following Christmas, and so asked my
mother to
get me the complete set of The Lord of the Rings by
J. R. R.
Tolkien. I had
really never enjoyed
fantasy very much, but Tolkien’s background in mythology and folk tales
provided plenty of touchstones that really appealed to my imagination. It comes across almost as
historical fiction,
which I found to be a very enjoyable concept.
It was
about this same time that Aunt Sissy gave me a copy of Hedrick Smith’s The
Russians. Again
I am ashamed to
admit that most of the details of the book escape me at this late date,
though
that is what causes me to so often reread books, looking for
interesting
features I missed the first time.
What I
do remember most was the sensation that the Anti-Soviet propaganda with
which
we had been bombarded did not actually apply to your average everyday
Russian. Though it
is hard to pinpoint
such things, I think it likely that this was the origin of my basic
philosophy
that people are the same all over the world, with similar concerns,
difficulties, and values. Having
a true
“Family of Man” approach to life has been an important part of my
personal
belief system.
In
college, an English teacher assigned us to read Cancer Ward
by Aleksandr
Solzhenitsyn. Not
only were my previous
feelings about Russian citizens reinforced, my distaste for
totalitarian
leaders like Stalin (and Sauron) was considerably heightened. Mostly, I was impressed by
the ability of
this author I had never heard of to draw complete, compelling
characters from
his memory. It was
obvious that he had
known all these people during his hospitalization, but he made the
reader know
(and care) about them as well – powerful stuff.
I was compelled to run out and purchase a copy of One
Day in the Life
of Ivan Denisovich, which expanded my appreciation for the
author’s
abilities and personal travails. It
was
truly a revelation that someone could describe just one day in such
brilliant
detail. I was
carrying this book with me
in Economics class one day, when a fellow student launched into an
attack on
Solzhenitsyn for being a “radical” and me for being “duped” by him. I had to laugh off his
assault, since I
thought the Soviet Union was in desperate need of radicals, and one
cannot dupe
the willing. As I
so often do, I
eventually collected most of Solzhenitsyn’s work, all of which I found
compelling. It also
led me to a greater
interest in Russian literature, which requires a special sort of
appreciation. Because
of The Gulag
Archipelago, I read Dostoevsky’s Houses of the Dead,
and then moved
on to his “fictional” novels. Russian
writing is not for all tastes, but I have developed a sense for its
perverse
pleasures.
At my
first long-term post-college employment (not in a school system, by the
way) my
desk-neighbor Bill Kohler, who would eventually become my Best Man, and
was a
Physics major in college gave me a copy of a small book in which Albert
Einstein
explained The Theory of Relativity.
(Anyone would have to admit that the Parkersburg office of
the
Department of Welfare had the most erudite set of employees of any such
office
in history.) That
little book literally
revolutionized my thinking process about nearly everything. That Einstein was so
capable of explaining an
extremely complex concept in such simple ways was a real revelation to
me. Moreover, the
ideas that he was explaining
shook my brain to its very core. I
had
taken Physics in high school, but most of it was very practical and
mathematical. It
had certainly energized
some light bulbs for me, but nothing to the degree that this book did. This revolutionary way of
looking at the
relative nature of physical events was nothing short of revolutionary
in my
life. The clarity
of his explanations
and the simplified examples literally changed the way I viewed the
natural
world in ways I am still discovering.
That
so many of his principles were also applicable to daily life was
equally mind-expanding,
and continues to be. It
may have been
the first book that I annotated extensively, and it is a continuing
source of
distress that I loaned it to one of my best friends, who has misplaced
it and
will likely never return it.
While
preparing to leave home for the beach in the summer of 1981, I received
a copy
of The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum from the
Book-of-the-Month
club. I had not
requested it, and would
not likely have read it had it not come as a result of my failure to
return the
card, but beach time is also reading time, so I tossed it in the pile
of things
to take along. It
turned out to be the
proverbial “book you can’t put down”.
I
literally found myself at 4 in the morning finally giving in to my
weariness,
but not to the author, by stopping in mid-chapter to get some rest. The book was a masterpiece
of pacing and plot
development. The
opening page was so dramatic,
I later gave it to Kathleen McCarty to use as a reading for her speech
class as
a highly dramatic passage. Ludlum
often
used the theme of the “innocent” man caught in a complex web of
intrigue, but
he surpassed himself in this instance by having the main character (a
highly
skilled assassin) a victim of amnesia (in a completely believable way). Every chapter ends with
rising action, and I
was very impressed by the intelligence of the character, since I
utterly
disdain international spies who are dumber than I am.
As is my wont, I then purchased virtually
every other book written by Ludlum, and as with Christie, found
numerous good
works of which I had previously been unaware.
The guy was a master of espionage fiction for about a full
decade, and
not horrible for the decade previous or the two afterward. He left the lasting
impression that it really
was possible that vast conspiratorial networks really could exist
within our
society or government and that it might be impossible for us to do
anything to
completely stop them. (shudder)
I can’t
recall whether I was already into my “Richard Bach phase” before I read
Jonathan
Livingston Seagull for the first time, or if it caused it,
but the book has
remained one of my very favorite.
As I
previously told David, it continues to change my life every time I read
it. As I think on
it, JLS probably
started the whole thing, because I think Terri Haid (former librarian)
was in
one of her housecleaning fits and was throwing out numerous paperback
copies of
Plato’s Dialogues, Zen & the Art
of Motorcycle Maintenance,
and JLS. These
had apparently
been required reading in the early days of PCHS, and it turned out that
my
friend and compatriot John Smith had been subjected to all of them. John and I had many things
in common, and
thought similarly on a wide variety of issues, but JLS
was that one
point of synergy that we could not bring together.
He always said, “I can’t see the point in
writing a story about a stupid bird.”
I
was continually flabbergasted by his position on this, because he loved
to read
as much as I do, had a wide variety of interests, and wrote science
fiction in
his spare time. I
continually vowed that
we would sit down to fully discuss the book (during which I would make
him love
it), but his untimely demise left me with a great void in my
“life-with-no-regrets” approach. To
my
mind, JLS is one of the greatest stories ever
written, a position that,
I have read, Richard Bach finds bemusing.
Simple stories often are the ones that carry the greatest
depth. JLS
is about independence, pursuing
truth, individuality, dreams (as goals), leadership, “following your
star”,
learning, teaching, and many other things.
I read it to the Seniors, because it clearly delivers the
message that
one must pursue their own path regardless of the consequences in order
to
realize their destiny and full potential.
The way it explores the relationship between teachers and
students is
artistic, sensitive, and a guide to open-mindedness.
Every teacher should read and embrace this
book, and I hope John Smith is in another state of consciousness right
now
saying, “Yeah, I get it.”
In the
late ‘80’s, I got into a long period of reading almost exclusively
non-fiction. I
acquired a number of
long-desired books, as well as some interesting-sounding ones for which
I
enjoyed the “blurb”. Flow
by
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi turned out to be one of the latter. It’s not really any sort
of all-time
“classic”, but it does have a theme that I have always found both
interesting
and ubiquitous. It
emphasizes the natural
pattern that exists when events or actions are in perfect orderliness. It is often applied to
sports, but Csikszentmihalyi
indicates that flow is not only universal and essential, it is also
controllable. The
book reinforced a
long-held feeling that everything really does happen for a reason and
that
sometimes the environment surrounding those reasons can be controlled. I had previously read
about a state known as
the “white moment” (also usually related to athletic performance), and
flow
seems to lead nicely to it. If
it can be
useful in sports, I think it can be even more useful in daily life, and
I am
often actively seeking it.
I have
always had a philosophical bent, but never really spent much time
exploring the
real deep thinkers on the subject until I read The Story of
Philosophy
by Will Durant. I
already knew the author
from his historical works, and found him to be a great storyteller, so
I picked
up the book on a whim and read it quickly.
I was not disappointed, because he continued to dazzle me
with his
reader-friendly style, but also because I discovered many new important
questions to consider and saw the structural framework that must
underlie any truly
intellectual thought process. I
believe
that the book gave me all sorts of new ideas to consider and points to
ponder,
while helping me improve my thinking skills and develop a more rigorous
process
for thinking about life’s most important issues.
I honestly don’t know if I could stand to
read many of these great thinkers at tremendous length, but this was
the
perfect way to be introduced to some, gain further knowledge about
others, and raise
relevant questions about my own thought processes.
Obviously,
most of the important
books I have read affected me in a positive way, but Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
had the complete opposite effect.
I am
sure that I did her a disservice by reading it at a very difficult time
in my
life, but perhaps the book would not have had nearly the same impact
otherwise. We were,
at that time,
embroiled in a controversy with one of Cindy’s former coworkers – a
person who
embodied for me the monster that Dr. Frankenstein had created. Cindy and I had gone out
of our way to help
this person improve the quality of her life, and she had repaid us with
incessant, soul-wrenching obsessive antagonism.
As I read of the Doctor’s relentless pursuit of his
monster, and the
monster’s equally relentless tormenting of his master, I could only see
it as
an allegory to this horrible relationship, and eventually had to quit
the
book. I can’t even
imagine finishing it,
because I do not believe I will ever be able to escape that visceral,
even
physiological, reaction.
Recently,
Shawn Weaver “lent” me his copy of Albert Einstein’s Ideas
and Opinions. (I
put the word lent in quotes because anyone
should know better than to lend a great book to book lover and expect
to get it
back!) It is well
known that I am a
fervent fan of Albert’s, but this book (in which I am still in the
midst) is
escalating our relationship exponentially.
The book contains much more than physics.
It includes his reflections on the relationship
between science and religion, as well as numerous insights on other
political,
religious, economic, and social topics.
I have likely never read another book in which virtually
every sentence
sparks within me some lengthy thought-path, and my notes on what I have
read
will likely eventually rival the length of the book itself. It is energizing and
enthralling, full of
interesting ideas that make my brain nearly burst, and I love it. My admiration for Einstein
continues to
grow. It both
inspires and perplexes me
that any one man could have such perfectly integrated thoughts and
positions on
every possible subject. I
believe it is
the way we all should live, and I think Einstein is an excellent
intellectual example
for all of us to follow. I
think he and
I truly are kindred spirits, but it nearly crushes me when I consider
the
feebleness of my intellect as compared to his.
Realistically, I could keep adding to this journal almost indefinitely, and if my books were all on the shelves facing me rather than in Morgantown, I could probably add another dozen titles with ease, but one must stop somewhere, so here it is.