Anonymous: A Man Reading (c. 1660)

"I gratefully retained little but the memory of the pleasure I derived when Reading to survive my exile."

However hostile and unwelcoming DC initially seemed, its libraries warmly embraced me. From the Arlington County library in Ballston, Virginia, and on to Takoma Park's little city library and Montgomery County, Maryland's Silver Spring branch, I found warm refuge within each. I rushed to the Ballston Branch to find a remarkably bright and well-appointed space when we were still in temporary housing. I marveled at the selections and immediately chose two books that would profoundly influence me and my upcoming transition. James Carse's The Religious Case Against Belief and James Hoopes' False Prophets: The Gurus Who Created Modern Management and Why Their Ideas Are Bad for Business Today. Carse's book reminded me that the purpose of inquiry might never be to find an answer but perhaps to more deeply appreciate the questions. Hoopes' book read like I had written it and reassured me that maybe I wasn't as crazy as I sometimes felt. I also found some CDs by Acoustic Academy. These became the soundtrack for my upcoming successful house search. I devoured those books before rushing back for more.

Those libraries and, more importantly, their books became my refuge while I was Exiled. Some might conclude that I was escaping my situation by focusing so intently on those pages, but I prefer to remember the time as one demanding strategic distraction. There might have been too much for me to perceive, let alone absorb, so I needed some buffer to prevent intake overflow. I could open a book when on the Metro and reclaim some personal space while out in public. I could sit on a park bench and read for a while, absorbing how it might be to live there in that neighborhood. I could better sense a place when my face was planted in a book.

My tastes were relatively narrow. I read scholarly tomes at my reading desk in the Library of Congress, but I preferred detective fiction when out in the world. The more well-written detective fiction interested me the most. I read James Lee Burke in the order in which he was published, along with several other authors. Researching and seeking out an author's works in order became my hobby. I never bought, and not only because our bankruptcy had reduced my circumstances. I'd packed, moved, then unpacked fifty-some boxes of books I brought on Exile, and I was out of shelf space. I didn't need any more trophies to my studies. I was consuming that fiction before expelling the evidence back into circulation again. I don't even remember most of those authors' names.

Like Carse's Belief, the higher purpose of Reading might not be retention. I might make a persuasive case against remembering anything I've ever read. Reading's highest purpose might be found in the moment it occurs. Who seriously attempts to retain the content of a conversation? We chat for gists and understanding, not to retain an accurate transcript of the interaction. Retaining a transcript might stand in the way of achieving any deeper understanding and orthogonal to the purpose of every interaction. Lord knows I, thankfully, retain almost nothing of what I've written as an author. I surprise myself when rereading finished manuscripts because I honestly have no memory of creating what I'm reading, and that's precisely as it should be. The idea that we should always be "learning" something seems equally absurd. We should be actively rejecting multiples of whatever we retain. Learning's easily degraded by retaining too much contextual shit. Essences stick on their own volition, not any reader's. Trying to remember seems like a recipe for achieving forgetfulness.

We must concoct better ways to administer tests. Checking for retention undermines an education's deeper intention. Ideally, nobody should be able to crisply recall anything except via the rough equivalent of their muscle memory. I've met far too many book-smart professionals with walls full of certifications and diplomas who possess hardly a chicken wing's worth of actionable muscle memory between them. The understanding should remain mysterious, and certifying anyone for their ability to recall precise wordings undermines everything. We read for the experience of reading. It's an act that wholly justifies itself. Without it, our brains become self-referential and worthless. Without it, we become narrow and shallow when we should become broader and deeper over time. Time spent reading can never be wasted because it's time spent out of time. I felt so drawn to those libraries and reading while in Exile because I needed to become timeless then.

Exile makes no sense as a prison sentence. Because it's open-ended, its dimensions cannot be successfully anticipated. It ends when it ends and not before. Being Exiled seemed like an invitation to live outside of time for a second and then for another and another. Those seconds count even if they never successfully add up to anything. To achieve congruence, anyone Exiled seems to require the ability to mirror Exile's native timelessness, and Reading provides that context. I consumed three or four books each week I was Exiled. We were ultimately exiled for 4,375 days. I read hundreds of books during that time. I remember, blessedly, few of them. They each went back into circulation after I had completed using them to achieve my essential Exile timelessness. Since I returned, my to-be-read pile has been steadily growing. Now that I'm back in my place, I'm automatically timeless. It's almost all I can do to keep up reading what I'm writing without trying to consume any other's work. I gratefully retained little but the memory of the pleasure I derived when Reading to survive my Exile.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz