Book tossing. It’s not a new game, just throwing away books. I recently went through the two thousand or so books in my office at home (another two grand or so at work anxiously await their turn) and reduced the count by around three quarters. (Now there’s more room for musical instruments. Hurrah!) Most of them were less useful than a chocolate teapot. A few could be donated to the local library.
It turns out that ripping covers off of books is mostly easy. The exceptions are a few particularly well sown older books (i.e., held together with thread, not failing glue), and dissertations (which are, apparently, held together by a most potent blend of the blood and tears of their authors). I learned this fact after being told (having already tossed the books into the van) that the local recycling center requires all covers to be removed, leading to a couple of quality hours standing in the road behind the van, ripping the covers off of books. (The picture below is the ‘before’. There is no ‘after’ as it would be indecent to embarrass the books in their nudity.)
Standing in the hot sun, I was a little self-conscious as people from the neighborhood walked by. “Why is he destroying those books? Isn’t that sacrilegious or something? And why does he have all of those books about poker?”
These and many more imagined censures passing through the mind, I was thankful that none of my neighbors is an academic colleague, lest I be declared guilty without a trial. Academics—especially we humanists—do have the most nostalgic feelings about books. I get it. I’ve written some myself. I’m even writing one right now. (Well, I’m supposed to be writing one right now. I’m trying. To my editor: If you are reading this…I’m trying!)
But almost all books have a shelf-life. Literally! Or at least they should. I still get royalty payments for a book about quantum theory that was published almost thirty years ago, which is astonishing (the payments not the book). Who the hell is buying this book? And why? (I hope that somebody, somewhere, is ripping the cover off of their copy right now.)
So the obvious question: Why? Why do we write books, when this is their fate?
I didn’t throw out everything. I kept my copies of Plato, Newton’s Principia, and similar stuff. I’ll probably even read parts of them again before I die. But neither I nor any other living author could responsibly hope that our writing will become the next Republic, or Principia. So why do we do it?
There are mercenary reasons, of course. Some people write for money. Some do it for fame or recognition. Some do it to keep their job. Those reasons are fine (and not mutually exclusive), but most of the books that got tossed the other day did not make their authors rich or famous (and no hope for that outcome would have been reasonable), and in most cases were not even crucial to maintaining their academic career.
So why write books? The best answer I can come up with—and I’m speaking solely for myself—is that writing books is a way to talk to people with whom one would otherwise be unable to communicate. I can’t think why else I could be writing a book. I’m not a rich man, but I get by just fine and don’t need the money. I don’t seek fame—coming to people’s attention has rarely ended well for me. What’s left? I think I just need to talk, and as I consider the idea of ‘writing books as talking to people’ it is seriously changing how I think about writing. If writing is the start of a conversation, then what matters is that it be a good start to a good conversation, one that goes well for all concerned. We don’t need a record of it thirty years later. I’m not writing for the future. It’s OK to toss the books.
How about you other authors? Why do you write?
One reason is that good writing affects me so much, it has become an ambition to affect others.
I think I write to connect with people.