Conjuring Specters: How to Talk about Books You Haven’t Read
Our relation to books is a shadowy space haunted by the ghosts of memory, and the real value of books lies in their ability to conjure these specters—xxi
I must confess at the outset of this post that Bayard convicted me of the danger of becoming too immersed into a book, thus “distancing [oneself] from [our] personal universe” (183). For example, years ago, I actually read cover to cover, page by page, Umberto Eco’s dreadful(ly fascinating) The Name of the Rose[1][2], the book which Bayard expressly encourages his reader to only learn about from listening to others’ responses to it.
502 pages absorbed in a different world! I was drawn into Baskerville’s discovery of the mangled corpse among the fresh timothy hay in the horse stalls, the smell of fear and musty books in the labyrinthine library, and the youthful romance of the naive protagonist and the doomed novitiate. What I missed was my own response to Eco’s warning of external realities not aligning with our own presuppositions. If I had merely skimmed this book, perhaps I would have been in a better position to process and converse on the juxtaposition of laughter and dangerous religion, of wandering and light.
To take a different approach, let me offer up Shusaku Endo’s literary masterpiece, Silence[3][4]. Without having read a word of the actual book, I can commend it to you as a book not to be ignored. Endo, a late 20th-century Japanese Catholic writer, tells the tale of early Catholic missionaries to Japan, their initially warm reception in the Far Eastern country, and eventual martyrdom. While most Japanese today do not identify as Christians, Endo’s telling of this historical event is widely respected in his country. I share this with you, coupled with the confession that I have held the book in my hands, caressed it in anticipation of falling into the tale, and then returning it unopened to the library. But I know enough of the story to recommend it to you, as I have listened to at least two sources whom I respect. First, my undergraduate New Testament professor discovered the writings of Endo and incorporated them into class discussions (yes, twenty years ago). Second, my artist brother’s friend and fellow artist, Makoto Fujimura, has written a companion to Silence (titled Beauty[5][6], which I haven’t read either); I’ve skimmed his reviews and interviews on Endo’s book.
As Bayard reminds us, what “we are able to say about our intimate relation with a book will have more force if we have not thought about it excessively. Instead, we need only let our unconscious express itself within us and give voice” (164). All of this is to give evidence of the ability to skim, forget, or listen to others in order to talk about books I haven’t read, such as the one assigned to us this week, of which I spent about 30 minutes skimming, 30 minutes compiling notes, and scattered amounts of time totaling about an hour writing this response.
[1] FB+
[2] Eco, Umberto. The Name of the Rose. 1st ed. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1983.
[3] HB++
[4] Endō, Shūsaku, and William Johnston. Silence. Tokyo: Sophia University in cooperation with the Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1969.
[5] UB+
[6] Fujimura, Makoto. Silence and Beauty: Hidden Faith Born of Suffering. Downers Grove, IL: IVP Books, 2016.
About the Author
Katy Drage Lines
In God’s good Kingdom, some minister like trees, long-standing, rooted in a community. They embody words of Wendell Berry, “stay years if you would know the genius of the place.” Others, however, are called to go. Katy is one of those pilgrims. A global nomad, Katy grew up as a fifth generation Colorado native, attended college & seminary and was ordained in Tennessee, married a guy from Pennsylvania, ministered for ten years in Kenya, worked as a children’s pastor in a small church in Kentucky, and served college students in a university library in Orange County, California. She recently moved to the heart of America, Indianapolis, and has joined the Englewood Christian Church community, serving with them as Pastor of Spiritual Formation. She & her husband Kip, have two delightful boys, a college junior and high school junior.13 responses to “Conjuring Specters: How to Talk about Books You Haven’t Read”
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Katy as a librarian I am sure you have seen, read and discussed hundreds of books. When you wrote about your engagement with the 502 pages and how you entered into a different world, I began to think about books I had read cover to cover and got lost in the text. Do you think that there is a fine line between skimming and fully engaging? Do you also, think there are certain books that should be read in their entirety and discussed?
Christal–
There are certainly some books that I sit in for awhile, that I read and glean all I can from; there are others that I feel quite comfortable familiarizing myself with by skimming. Yes, intimacy and skimming seem distinct in my reading (and non-reading) experiences. Regarding librarians (I am not one; simply a manager of a library)– their strength is knowing what needs to be known, and knowing where/how to find that, especially beyond “The Google.”
Hi Katy
I thought of you when I read about Musil’s librarian, who had a good overview of books, but never read any of them. You describe in your post two approaches: one in which you gutted a book, and loved it, and one in which you skimmed and commented on a book (this one) without having really read it in depth. I wonder which is more enriching to you? And what you (and I) really learn from our skimming. As Bayard says, we end up discussing ourselves and our own thoughts and reactions, but not much about the actual content of the book!
We could probably agree that books falling into genres comfortable to us are more enriching, on a personal basis. For me, I am drawn towards anthropological books, poetry and essays, literature. I’m less likely to “gut” a business book or leadership book, simply because I don’t “enjoy” them as much. But that is due, I imagine, to years of being able to choose for myself what I read. The benefit of a doctoral program (or education in general) is that we are, like young birds pushed out of the nest, confronted with books that were chosen for us, rather than our own selections of what we already know we will “enjoy.”
I think a clue likes in Bayard’s abbreviation system. He does not propose that we refuse to read ANY book. In his classification of books (skimmed, read, not read) coupled with his opinion (positive, negative, extremely positive, etc.) Bayard lays out the idea that SOME books are to be read carefully. Yet, others are to been skimmed or even ignored.
Wisdom is knowing how long to spend with a book.
“Wisdom is knowing how long to spend with a book.”
Yes!
Hey Katie,
I keep pondering over the point where Bayard wrote on intimacy with the book. I am having some difficulty in my relationship with these books to a point that I become unconscious. So I’ll forget the relationship and just skim.
Tagging onto Geoff and Stu, the ‘right’ approach to a book is all in the context – like digging in the dirt – what is the goal: are we mining for gold (or oil or whatever)? If so, a focus on only what is necessary or precious (what is going to be on an exam or enough to write a blog post, perhaps) is appropriate and that can certainly sometimes be discovered without any direct engagement with the text itself.
But sometimes, you just need to play in the mud, get your hands dirty and feel the earth – it may mean that you have ‘lost’ the ability to objectively discuss the literary merits of that text (don’t anyone dare say a negative word about Catcher in the Rye!) but, that isn’t always important or necessary – sometimes we need a book to read and change us as we read it.
Maybe digging in the dirt is in order to plant a garden.What grows from our process of reading (or skimming)?
(And you guessed it, I do love to just play in the mud sometimes).
“We need a book to read and change us”– that’s something to chew on for awhile. I’ve had many mental conversations with authors, but haven’t imagined a book reading me.
Katy, I agree about the different world. Once every few years I take time out of my busy schedule and go on a vacation with Frodo. (I might start with the Hobbit sometimes.) I have been criticized by some Christians for escaping into “fantasy” but reading is my favorite thing to do and it is a vacation for me! In an interview for Christianity Today, Tolkien advised readers not to look for parallels between Frodo and Jesus. He simply wanted to write a good story. God bless good story tellers. And God bless my cohort as we had a lot of fun at the Eagle and the Child, didn’t we?
Indeed, we did! Walking with Frodo or Harry or the Pevensies returns us back changed to the world we left. Like an advance with new, dear friends, we move into a liminal space when we pick up a fiction book.
Katy, your love and appreciation for books comes through in your writing and in your life. I recall your awed appreciation for visiting the library at Oxford and your reverenced tone as you commented on the beauty of the ancient books. I think you would have been quite content to be locked in there for months, just devouring all those books. (Did I read you right?) It was beautiful to experience that with you and I thought of you as I visited the Book of Kels in Dublin at Trinity College. I wished I had you there to give me that reverenced approach and experience to valuable books.
You are correct– When I handle an old book, I imagine the hands that crafted it, perhaps even handwrote the text or in the margins. I think of the stories of those people, those creators crafting words. And I imagine all the hands that have handled a book between its creation and me… what stories speak this book, beyond even its own words.
The book of Kels is a book I can only dream of seeing. You must post pictures!