His life was indecorously anchored in buffoonery. A wreckage, was his existence, like an otherwise vacant lot festooned with rusted out husks of inoperable cars and burned out remains of spent furniture. Yet, despite such vacuous terrain he did well in one single area. He had fantastic literary taste punctuated by an insatiable appetite for reading material.
Dating back to his wasted summers of high school, whatever silliness he'd been deeply immersed in, he always found time to imbibe deeply of literary consumption. He was a reader, in most basic terms. And not just comic books, graphic novels, and the back of cereal boxes. He read books. All kinds, even ones without pictures. This was his redeeming quality, his penchant for reading. Good thing, too, as he led a life vastly in need of redemption.
Summer breaks during high school, that's when it got into the full swing, his budding reading appetite. Like the lazy bones he was, he would sleep in well past 10:00, like clockwork. If it wasn't for the blinding sunlight that assaulted his somnolent carcass through the window he might have slept in until dinner.
His bedroom, were it not for the fortuitously uncovered windows unable to hold back the lovely, motivating machination of the sun's rays, who knows how long the lummox might waste away stewing in the now slumber-laden welcoming warmth of his bed. Without curtains or blinds there was very little in the way of defensive bulwarks to counteract the sun's effulgent offensive. And this was no guy with initiative enough to change the windows' lack of coverings.
Rolling around to a sun-induced restless wakefulness he would have strength enough to stretch, roll onto his side, grab a book from the headboard, then read in bed. This would mark the beginnings of his day. Vacating his bed, however, would take still a stronger calling. Most days it would require a belly rumbling with hunger or a full bladder, this graceless rascal.
With the burgeoning of each new summer, he'd be reminded by the sun that the windows still were not equipped with blinds. Lacking the gumption to cover the windows and the sun's unrelenting cheer, the routine from prior summer would repeat. He could muster little more strength than to roll over and reach for a book. So went the routine carrying forward undisturbed.
It was in such ineffectual surroundings his inchoate love for books was formed. From whence forth it flourished. He would read one book after another, then start on yet another. Sometimes engaging multiple books simultaneously breaking from one book to read from the next, much believing this would allow him to read more by mixing in several tomes. The mixing in of different tastes, he reasoned, to keep the appetite insatiably whet with anticipation.
Variety being not just the spice of life, but also the way by which to maximize one's reading capacity. He equated this to a fella with a plate of steak, only steak, and the speculation that said fellow would be able to consume a greater quantity if he also had a complimentary side dish to refresh his steak-eating inclination. Even if the side was some silly vegetable like brussel sprouts. But not beets, on this culinary peculiarity he remained steadfast.
As the waif grew into a mostly functional adult, a nascent book collection took shape. His bookcase, formerly occupied by his football cards, a baseball mitt and such sophomoric intransigent possessions of male youth. These cluttered markings of adolescence slowly gave way to his books. He kept each after reading, revered like well-earned trophies. The bookcase slowly filled, but fill it did. Then came the small cabinets which too became full with his literary treasures.
As the years robustly rolled by his level of maturation inched forward. His life, not ready to be viewed in its own full light, did continue to excel as it pertained to his books. The collection came to encompass several bookcases, shelves, boxes stacked one atop the other in his room and under his bed, still more in the garage. Then there was the surface area, desks and a table formerly open like so much of the great plains of North America, they gradually and completely filled with books. Several neat piles, then more standing vertically and tightly bookended.
His books were gluttonously numerous. Glorious. He would sometimes pull down an entire bookcase or two of his former triumphs. Slowly leafing through the pages, reviewing his highlights and margin notes. With the constructive solitude of a pro-bowl quarterback studying game film of the competition to enhance his skill, he would sort his books, put them in different piles, only later to rethink and reorganize them again in some other fashion. Whiling away large swaths of his day, he could play with these literary toys with the delight of a baby boy enjoying a bin of plastic dinosaurs.
Then there was his uncle, a gentleman kindly occupying space on the opposite end of the litterateur spectrum. This guy, and he was a nice fellow, glibly shunned the idea of having multiple books in the wings awaiting their turn. He wanted only a single book at a time. Complete one book, then buy another, but by no means was there a need to have bunches of books lugged around like so much dunnage.
The two knew of each other's bibliophilic proclivities. They openly discussed and chuckled at the other's folly, but respected it. Every person was allowed to err, so agreed both, and here each could see how the other enjoyed theirs.
And so it was. The book collector and anti-book collector greeting each other with sincere delight, even though there would forever be this rift between them.
[Inspired by an animated and joyful conversation with my son and biggest brother, two lovely litterateurs, while vacationing in Pacific Grove the summer of 2022. The summer reading imagery is an outtake from my own questionably productive adolescent years. -wdk]
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