My Books are My Friends

This post is quite metaphoric, so the reader ought to bear with me and engage the imagination in reading this post.  I often say: “My books are my friends, and I have many friends.”  In fact I have a room surrounded by shelves floor to ceiling stacked with books two deep, plus like Thomas Jefferson I have books in every room in my house. They number in the thousands.  So why are my books my friends?

My books are more faithful than any of the friends I have or have had, even though I abuse them sometimes by writing notes in their undergarments, they remain constantly there.  They are one of the few constancies in my life.  Even when I disagree with what’s in the book (what the book says), the book persists and often allows me to think for a while before I make judgments as to the book’s character. How many friends can one say this about?  The book doesn’t care if I am angry, happy or saddened by what it says.  The book doesn’t chastise me for my ignorance, but seeks to persuade me to the book’s way of thinking. The book is extremely patient, it may reside on the shelf for years and still when I pick it up again it expresses the same joy it had when I put it away.  In fact one could argue that the book picks up where we - I the reader and the book -  left off with little, if any, diminishing of our affection for one another.  Can the reader say that of all his/her friends?  Sometimes a book introduces me to its parents and the midwife via whence it was born.

My books are respectful; they do not argue with me, except when I’m wrong and then they kindly proceed to point out my mistakes.  My books like to dispute with me and one another, but never do they fight for my attention. They are mostly, respectfully, argumentative Philosophers. I choose my books, like my friends, but the choices I make are for companionship.  Life is a journey and one ought not make that journey without a companion, the book is best for this reason - it only needs to be carried and costs little in space.  They are excellent traveling companions in this regard.  I am never required to pay back my books for any favor they have given me.  I honor my books and often I tell others what they have told me. They do not judge me, though I may judge them.  They lift me higher than I’ve ever been lifted before.

I have books in several languages, and they all can communicate perfectly well with me, even if I require another book to explain the meaning of what one book says.  My books are never foreign to me, even if they speak a language I do not, as of general practice, speak.  My books honor me with their affection and never do they withdraw the same for anger or hurt, I may have caused them or their clothes (pages, bindings).  They allow me to see and enjoy their naked interiors. My books are never jealous of one another; in fact, if I have many open at one time; they do not compete for my affection.  They all realize that in some sense they are all precious to me.  My books are available anytime and I do not need to make an appointment to converse with them.  Some are so kindly I consider them lovers, lovers of the wisdom I seek.  They do not reject me for disagreeing with them, though they often will respectfully disagree with me.  They never accuse me of any of my misdeeds, but instead kindly and tenderly remind me of what I ought to do and be about. Sometimes they sing to me with meter and rhyme. My books teach me things I would not otherwise know; they picture the world for me, even if they have no pictures in their underclothes.  My books enrich my soul - that soul which might, from time to time, look out into the mist of future times.  They remind me of the past, even when the past is not mine, but belongs to someone else.  They secure me in thoughts of what can be and also what ought to be.  In this way they open me to another possible world which I cannot by myself enter.  They arm me with information both useful, or practical, and theoretical.  My books never show anger; although I often show anger to them.  They are never offended by this, but remain affectionate companions.  They inspire me to engage them or one of their companions in further conversation. They take me to farther places where I cannot readily go.  They never leave me alone, but appoint one to accompany me, whenever I go somewhere for an extended period of time. My books are extremely loyal; they stand at attention like soldiers, while they await my choosing to engage them.

But most of all they give me pleasure.  They are those constant delights I fancy, and they do not remove themselves from me, they rely on my good judgment to remove myself from them.  When they show me love and tenderness; they do not withdraw the same at our next meeting.  They are never jealous of any one I might choose to join them in the companionship I seek, and they often welcome the new one with an honored place on the shelf.  They do not compete with one another for a word in the conversation, but allow me to choose with whom, at any moment, I allow entrance to the conversation.  Sometimes I take a book to the bed with me, and the other books do not feel jealousy, even when the book is still in my arms in the morning. So you now know why my books are my friends; but if you have been reading carefully, you should realize that they are my best friends, my true friends, which I can count on for their constancy.  I love my books, and even though they may not be able to demonstrate it, I know they love me.