Whenever I get a chance, I will check out people's bookcases, because the books people have can tell you an awful lot about them. Of course, I am very conscious of the fact that merely possessing a book is no guarantee that the owner has read it, or even if he or she has, that he or she has assimilated any of their contents. There are quite a few people out there who collect books as status symbols. These people are a bit like name-droppers, who will take any opportunity, however inopportune, to insert the name of some famous person/book into the conversation, in the hope that this will somehow make them look more important or intelligent than they are.
Those of you who know me personally will realize that I know of which I speak, because I do this myself. I will tell someone, for example, that I have Plato's Republic, and in doing so, I will have established my credentials as a serious-minded person, who sets a high standard. But before anyone can ask any questions I would not be able to answer, I will hasten to add that (1) it is the English Translation, not the original Greek version, and that (2) I haven't read it yet. And it gets worse, because this last remark gives me the perfect opportunity to list some of the other books that I have but have not read, or have not finished, like The Golden Bough, The Embarrassment of Riches, Herfstij der Middeleeuwen, the Tao of Physics, or a political history of the popes.
But I digress. What I really wanted to write about was a strange, out-of-body-like experience I had the other day, when I found myself inspecting a collection of books that could have been my own, but wasn't. Some of the books in this other collection were identical to books I own, but for the most part, this other person had different books but by the same authors. Had this phenomenon been restricted to literature, I would not have given it a second thought, but it spanned art, history, the natural sciences, science fiction and even travel books. It was really scary. I worry that one day I will wake up and find I am actually him, and not myself. And what is worse: if I am him, I will have a collection of several hundred books I should have read, but haven't!
Those of you who know me personally will realize that I know of which I speak, because I do this myself. I will tell someone, for example, that I have Plato's Republic, and in doing so, I will have established my credentials as a serious-minded person, who sets a high standard. But before anyone can ask any questions I would not be able to answer, I will hasten to add that (1) it is the English Translation, not the original Greek version, and that (2) I haven't read it yet. And it gets worse, because this last remark gives me the perfect opportunity to list some of the other books that I have but have not read, or have not finished, like The Golden Bough, The Embarrassment of Riches, Herfstij der Middeleeuwen, the Tao of Physics, or a political history of the popes.
But I digress. What I really wanted to write about was a strange, out-of-body-like experience I had the other day, when I found myself inspecting a collection of books that could have been my own, but wasn't. Some of the books in this other collection were identical to books I own, but for the most part, this other person had different books but by the same authors. Had this phenomenon been restricted to literature, I would not have given it a second thought, but it spanned art, history, the natural sciences, science fiction and even travel books. It was really scary. I worry that one day I will wake up and find I am actually him, and not myself. And what is worse: if I am him, I will have a collection of several hundred books I should have read, but haven't!
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