The Tragedy of Written Word

I recently had a discussion with my father about one of our mutual interests in life. That which is the unique joy of reading printed word. My father, if you have ever met him, is what would be referred to in a past time as a learned man, a storyteller, a man of many, many, many, words. Quick to share with anyone in earshot, a story of some magnitude or microsignificance that he has found within his daily routine. I have never met a day where he has told me the same thing twice. Whether it be the bus stop, or at the neighborhood Barnes and Noble that we happened to be standing in.

And in our aforementioned discussion about the multitude of virtues of reading, he expressed a notion that I have thought of before: "Son, I feel sad sometimes, knowing there are so many books, and I have so little time left."

My first notion was to jump to the conclusion of fear, that dread emotion that I have dealt with all of my life in less than stellar ways. The fear that we lose everyone eventually, and the loss of a father is one of immeasurable greif. Especially MY father, a man who is my everyman, my salt of my earth, my hero. Everyday I worship more and more his prescence in my life and the love he unconditionally bestows upon me.

So I told him. "Dad, dont say things like that, you have lots of time left. Time to spend doing what you love, reading."

To this he shrugged, "it's okay, I know the reality of things."

In that moment it seems if I was granted clarity, to remove myself with the wonder of my quick moving mind, I stepped back and realized something else about our exchange. That he was right. I have always thought about that notion, that with the relative length of the human life, vastly superior to thousands of animals in its length and depth. There will never be enough time to conquer all the words that I wish.

I had thought about this before, and I am sure that in my poor knowledge of literature there has been an author to address this very notion. Perhaps many authors. That I have often found myself in libraries and book stores, floating through the ailes on a sense of psychic magnetism, perusing the many options hoping one would catch my eye, and have been hit with the familiar gut twist that accompanies sadness and heartache. That debilitating feeling coupled with such a harsh realization: That I will never learn as much as I want to, that here in this wonderful, heartbreaking, beautiful love of mine I will never conquer her.

More to come...