My Library

I've been reading some book reviews on Orhan Pamuk's novels for the past hour or so. While doing so, I crossed one his memoirs of how he took fancy upon literature and writing, which I find that I can definitely relate to. In a Guardian article titled The Collector, Pamuk reminisces on how he put together his own library when he was around my age. What's truly surprising was that when I finished buying a hundred or so used classics I'd been compiling on a list, the store owner mentioned to me, "Looks like you're building a library." Never had I considered that building a library would be one of the prerequisites to becoming a writer like Pamuk. Alright, I'll admit, now I'm being a bit too ambitious. But I recall that subsequent to reading Pamuk's Istanbul: Memories & The City, I was deeply moved by the conclusion whereby he found peace of mind when finding that the profession that his soul was yearning for was to become a writer. I don't think he'd calculated that he'd end up becoming a Nobel Prize winner at that point, but he merely followed his passion.

Another snippet I recall from the couple of words I exchanged with the store owner was that of all the books I purchased that day, he singled out Naguib Mahfouz's Midaq Alley and claimed that it was his favorite. I took pride in saying, "Oh Mahfouz! He's a compatriot of mine." Its not a coincidence that the likes of Pamuk and Mahfouz grew up around libraries. I too have my own story behind building my library. There is something about books and their proximity to me that makes me at ease. Where does this affinity for books stem from?

Well, if there is a main source to which I will attribute my love of books for its my father. Its quite funny how my father will rarely argue about anything but who gets to keep a book in his collection. Even though my family has relocated several times, I recall since my earliest memories that there was always a library in our house, even if just a book shelf. I recall before the family sold the old mansion in Helwan, I would always go there to play what seemed to me like an old deserted, haunted house. There, I would experience my first encounter with a plethora of books from my father's adolescence. I recall some of the first books I came across during those childhood adventures were books about the cold war and a biography of Abraham Lincoln that even though I started reading, found too tedious to complete.

It wasn't that I was given a biography of John Paul Johns, the American revolutionary naval captain, upon my departure from New Delhi that I began to take reading seriously. I recall this was the first book I completed and was so proud of myself. I marked the date of completion inside and celebrated my success...by myself. But this was a new page in my life. Since then, I have always attempted to become a prolific reader. Whether it was going to my grandmother's house across the street in Maadi to browse through the collections of my father's books, where I came across an-almost-complete collection of the Britannica Encyclopedia, travel guides, spiritual and religious books, and every possible genre of books you can imagine. It all seemed to fascinate me. I recall that it was also one of our recreational pastimes to go to the Barnes & Noble near our house in New York City.

Having a father around makes it easy to have access to books, I assume, so when I came to college, I always felt that there was a void that needed to be filled. It wasn't until the beginning of this semester that I realized that was missing was a good collection of books. I have always compiled lists of books that I was keen on purchasing. Whether on random sticky notes, journal pages, emails to myself, I have had such a scattered array of lists of books that I'd intended to purchase. Once, while walking Downtown, I walked into one of the used bookstores, a favorite pastime of mine, and for some strange reason, I found almost all of the books I'd been listing for ages on the same bookshelf ahead of me. To be frank, it seemed quite surreal to me, almost a sign that I needed to scoop them all at once. Considering that they were all used, I found some for a buck a piece. I couldn't resist and scooped up about a hundred books that day.

Obviously I haven't gotten to a fraction of the books this semester, but every time I pass my new friends on the way out of my room, I say to them, Oh what pleasure I well get from devouring each and everyone of you. I've mostly gotten to short stories and poems because that is all my time allows. I've also taking a particular liking for the classical works of the Romanticist movement, i.e. the poetry of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Voltaire and some of the more traditional, oriental works of Omar El Khayem and Jalaludin Rumi. What I value most about this mini-library of mine is the diversity it cultivates. I want to learn everything there is to be leaned, and the more I learn, the more I find out that there is so much more to be learned. Interesting, huh? So I try to diversify my collection to encompass everything from Shakespeare to Lenin, with the focus of having a romantic touch to all the works I collect.

Its interesting, because at one point, book buying becomes an addition and you realize that it will almost be impossible to get to all those books before life's over, but there's something special about bringing back a book home. I feel as its adopting a child that you will actually give care to someday. When my eyes survey the expanse of books that in bookstores, each title pops out at me and contemplate for a second or two what discoveries I could make if I take a minute to leaf from cover to cover, but I know that would lead me to spend days in the bookstores.

What worries me at times though is that these books make me feel a sense of detatchment from reality. Why am I so obsessed with the past? How can my passion to learn about irrelavent emotional and artistic movements help me in any way in becoming a successful engineering student or a better Egyptian citizen who could be of actual use for my country? Is this quest and passion for learning futile then? Sure, these books may fuel the fire that aids me in writing this entry, in expressing my emotions, but how can I ever put this knowledge to practical use that will allow me to achieve my idealist aspirations of "making a difference in the world"? A contrast to springs to mind is that of two great philosophers: Che and Sartre. The former "lived his words and spoke his actions" as the latter would put it, while the latter only philosophized but never actually did anything. I strive to identify with the former, but how?

I think that it is natural, and even healthy to be in such a dilemma at this point in life. I know that as my library grows, so will I and my understanding of the mysteries of life, so what's the rush, I've still got shelves of book to read help me do so.