More Than to Read, More Than to Hold

‘YES,’ said my friend, ‘I think it would be delicious to have a house made of books — old books, big books, small books, brightly colored books; books laid up like bricks into solid walls. And such a house would be durable, too, if properly shellacked against moisture. For a book is really a stout article. Did you ever try to burn one? Well, a book is really an almost indestructible piece of matter, and I love to dream of having a house made of books.

‘Think of it — the knowledge, the poetry, the recorded lives of a thousand men stacked up to give shelter not only against the elements, but stormy spiritual weather as well! I tell you, that would be a kind of cave worth having! Let the poets be built into the north end of the house for greatest warmth, for, of all men, they are most able to bear winter and rough weather; and the heat of their passions would give a constant glow of warmth to that sunless wall. Let the philosophers and historians occupy the western end of the building, for they are mellow, like the sunset, and they gaze back on the day that has been. Let fairy tales and tales of romance hold fort on the east, for the dawn ever holds up the infinite rose of possibility even in the face of drab improbability. Duller books, weaker books, books of fact and science, books which disprove themselves, books subject to dry rot — let these form the south wall so that if it cracks it will not greatly matter. Yes! I do think it would be glorious to live in a house made of books! ’

We sat in an isolated pasture that had once been ‘sugar-maple bush.’ Old, decaying stumps of maple trees stood about. The evening was forming and collecting its colors into a great mass of condensed beauty on the western sky.

‘It would seem,’ I answered, ‘that you actually desire to get inside of books. I agree that books are very fit to serve other than reading purposes. I have used them for ladders, weights, files, wall-hole hiders, and so forth, but I have n’t thought much about using them to build a house. I grant that a house made of books would not cost much. Certainly they would not cost more than good clay bricks. Why don’t you hire a truck and begin collecting old books at once? I can think of many old farmhouses whose attics keep almost forgotten treasures of old books. Why don’t you go mining in gray dust and cobwebs for these? I’m sure that many people would give you their less valued volumes for the asking; others would be glad to sell their books at not more than fifty cents a dozen. Build yourself a house of books and I will gladly try sitting in it. Please do invite me to come when it is finished.

‘But as for myself, I doubt if I’ll ever be moved to build such a house. I like my own thoughts too well. My belief is that a book is first to be read; after that it is something not to read, but to hold. Don’t you remember how our favorite poet in his poem, “Waiting,” speaks of the book of song that he takes out in the fields as something not to read, but to hold? For years it has been my habit to carry a book with me for just that purpose. It is my silent companion, and I do not need to read it any more than I need to try to see that thrush back in the deep woods now singing so sweetly.’

The bird was indeed singing as if the whole world were his nest of gladness and joy, and for a while we hushed our talk about books.

Then my companion spoke again: —

‘People are very hidebound and headstiffened. Their skins need stretching, and their heads need pummeling. They learn very slowly. See how long it has taken men to learn that books make good bookcase fillers. They used to think that books were printed primarily to read; now at last they have learned that books are manufactured to fill bookcases as picture frames are manufactured to hold pictures. See how brightly these modern books are covered. A bookcase filled with brightly colored books serves as a tapestry against a blank wall, and nearly everybody realizes this now.

‘Is n’t it logical, then, if we are to continue to go stepping ahead in progress, that it is time for books not to be placed against walls for decorating purposes, but inside walls? Now I propose to start a movement among publishers which will facilitate the manufacture of books of standard size, weight, color, and even contents — books with weatherresisting qualities printed on asbestos, if need be, which may definitely be used for building purposes.

‘Wonderful things are being done with food nowadays. Look at our breakfast foods, our cereals — puffed rice, shredded wheat, cornflakes, and so forth. These are miraculous titbits, and I think they are almost as wonderful as natural hailstones, frost crystals, and snowflakes. I ’m sure that cornflakes, for instance, could be enlarged and toughened and used for pages of books. Let these be printed with edible, pleasanttasting ink, so that they might be eaten after they are read.

‘Did n’t Bacon say that some books are to be digested? Then let us have meals of books! Let us have shelters of books! Let books doubly, trebly satisfy the inner and the outward man! Let us have asbestos books, cornflake books, soy-bean, spaghetti books, and even dried-peach books!

‘Ah, the world is doing wonderful things, and I am now waiting for science to invent the building book, the edible book!’