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I Know My Time Will Come Soon Enough, But I Will Not Dwell On It. What Is The Purpose? We Might As Well Dwell On The Work Of Our Teeth Or On The Mechanics Of Our Walk. It Is There, It Will Always Be There, And I Don't Intend To Spend My Glorious Hours Looking Over My Shoulder To See Death's Icy Face.

-Alberto Manguel

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I Know My Time

Alberto Manguel

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I Know My Time Will Come Soon Enough, But I Will Not Dwell On It. What Is The Purpose? We Might As Well Dwell On The Work Of Our Teeth Or On The Mechanics Of Our Walk. It Is There, It Will Always Be There, And I Don't Intend To Spend My Glorious Hours Looking Over My Shoulder To See Death's Icy Face.

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At Different Times And In Different Places I Have Come To Expect Certain Books To Look A Certain Way, And, As In All Fashions, These Changing Features Fix A Precise Quality Onto A Book's Definition. I Judge A Book By Its Cover; I Judge A Book By Its Shape.

Reality Deals In Specifics Under The Guise Of Generalities. Literature Does The Contrary.

In Our Day, Computer Technology And The Proliferation Of Books On Cd-rom Have Not Affected - As Far As Statistics Show - The Production And Sale Of Books In Their Old-fashioned Codex Form.

Socrates Affirmed That Only That Which The Reader Already Knows Can Be Sparked By A Reading, And That The Knowledge Cannot Be Acquired Through Dead Letters.

One Can Transform A Place By Reading In It.

Reading In Bed Is A Self-centered Act, Immobile, Free From Ordinary Social Conventions, Invisible To The World, And One That, Because It Takes Place Between The Sheets, In The Realm Of Lust And Sinful Idleness, Has Something Of The Thrill Of Things Forbidden.

All These Are Readers, And Their Gestures, Their Craft, The Pleasure, The Responsibility And The Power They Derive From Reading, Are Common With Mine. I Am Not Alone.

Our Society Accepts The Book As A Given, But The Act Of Reading -- Once Considered Useful And Important, As Well As Potentially Dangerous And Subversive -- Is Now Condescendingly Accepted As A Pastime, A Slow Pastime That Lacks Efficiency And Does Not Contribute To The Common Good.

Most Readers, Then And Now, Have At Some Time Experienced The Humiliation Of Being Told That Their Occupation Is Reprehensible.

A Society Can Exist - Many Do Exist - Without Writing, But No Society Can Exist Without Reading.

This Morning I Looked At The Books On My Shelves And Thought That They Have No Knowledge Of My Existence. They Come To Life Because I Open Them And Turn Their Pages, And Yet They Don't Know That I Am Their Reader.

In The Light, We Read The Inventions Of Others; In The Darkness We Invent Our Own Stories.

My Books Hold Between Their Covers Every Story I've Ever Known And Still Remember, Or Have Now Forgotten, Or May One Day Read; They Fill The Space Around Me With Ancient And New Voices.

Ordered By Subject, By Importance, Ordered According To Whether The Book Was Penned By God Or By One Of God's Creatures, Ordered Alphabetically Or By Numbers Or By The Language In Which The Text Is Written, Every Library Translates The Chaos Of Discovery And Creation Into A Structured System Of Hierarchies Or A Rampage Of Free Associations.

The Telling Of Stories Creates The Real World.

I Always Knew That I Wanted To Live With Books, Even As A Child, Because We Traveled A Lot. Home Was The Book To Which I Came Back Every Evening.

If Every Library Is In Some Sense A Reflection Of Its Readers, It Is Also An Image Of That Which We Are Not, And Cannot Be.

Nothing Moves Except My Eyes And My Hand Occasionally Turning A Page, And Yet Something Not Exactly Defined By The Word "text" Unfurls, Progresses, Grows And Takes Root As I Read. But How Does This Process Take Place?

And Sometimes, When The Stars Are Kind, We Read With An Intake Of Breath, With A Shudder, As If Someone Or Something Had 'walked Over Our Grave,' As If A Memory Had Suddenly Been Rescued From A Place Deep Within Us - The Recognition Of Something We Never Knew Was There, Or Of Something We Vaguely Felt As A Flicker Or A Shadow, Whose Ghostly Form Rises And Passes Back Into Us Before We Can See What It Is, Leaving Us Older And Wiser.

It Is In The Translation That The Innocence Lost After The First Reading Is Restored Under Another Guise, Since The Reader Is Once Again Faced With A New Text And Its Attendant Mystery. That Is The Inescapable Paradox Of Translation, And Also Its Wealth.

We Read To Understand, Or To Begin To Understand. We Cannot Do But To Read. Reading Almost As Much As Breathing, Is Our Essential Function.

Digestion Of Words As Well; I Often Read Aloud To Myself In My Writing Corner In The Library, Where No One Can Hear Me, For The Sake Of Better Savouring The Text, So As To Make It All The More Mine.

A Library Is An Ever-growing Entity; It Multiples Seemingly Unaided, It Reproduces Itself By Purchase, Theft, Borrowings, Gifts, By Suggesting Gaps Through Association, By Demanding Completion Of Sorts.

As We Read A Text In Our Own Language, The Text Itself Becomes A Barrier.

There Is A Line Of Poetry, A Sentence In A Fable, A Word In An Essay, By Which My Existence Is Justified; Find That Line, And Immortality Is Assured.

From Fire, Water, The Passage Of Time, Neglectful Readers, And The Hand Of The Censor, Each Of My Books Has Escaped To Tell Me Its Story.

Every Reader Exists To Ensure For A Certain Book A Modest Immortality. Reading Is, In This Sense, A Ritual Of Rebirth.

As Centuries Of Dictators Have Known, An Illiterate Crowd Is The Easiest To Rule; Since The Craft Of Reading Cannot Be Untaught Once It Has Been Acquired, The Second-best Recourse Is To Limit Its Scope.

To Say That An Author Is A Reader Or A Reader An Author, To See A Book As A Human Being Or A Human Being A Book, To Describe The World As Text Or A Text As The World, Are Ways Of Naming The Readers Craft.

Every Text Assumes A Reader.

Unicorns, Dragons, Witches May Be Creatures Conjured Up In Dreams, But On The Page Their Needs, Joys, Anguishes, And Redemptions Should Be Just As True As Those Of Madame Bovary Or Martin Chuzzlewit.

Our Books Will Bear Witness For Or Against Us, Our Books Reflect Who We Are And Who We Have Been, Our Books Hold The Share Of Pages Granted To Us From The Book Of Life. By The Books We Call Ours We Will Be Judged

Reading Is At The Beginning Of The Social Contract.

I've Never Really Understood Attachment To A Place For Reasons Of Birth. That My Mother Happened To Give Birth To Me In A Certain Place Doesn't, To My Mind, Justify Any Thankfulness Towards That Place. It Could Have Been Anywhere.

I Had A Library Of Maybe 1,000 Books In My Room In Buenos Aires. I Did Have The Sense That Everything There Was Organised In The Right Way. You'll Probably Think I Needed Serious Psychiatric Treatment, But There Were Times When I Would Not Buy A Book Because I Knew It Wouldn't Fit One Of The Categories Into Which I Had Divided The Library.

Books Read In A Public Library Never Have The Same Flavour As Books Read In The Attic Or The Kitchen.

As Readers, We Have Gone From Learning A Precious Craft Whose Secret Was Held By A Jealous Few, To Taking For Granted A Skin That Has Become Subordinate To Principles Of Mindless Financial Profit Or Mechanical Efficiency, A Skill For Which Governments Care Almost Nothing.

But A Reader's Ambition Knows No Bounds.

I Never Talked To Anyone About My Reading; The Need To Share Came Afterwords.

Deserted Libraries Hold The Shades Of Writers Who Worked Within, And Are Haunted By Their Absence.

When Literature Is Discovered, A Revelation Occurs: The Joyful, Exultant Knowledge That Anything Can Happen.

It Has Always Been My Experience That, Whatever Groupings I Choose For My Books, The Space In Which I Plan To Lodge Them Necessarily Reshapes My Choice And, More Important, In No Time Proves Too Small For Them And Forces Me To Change My Arrangement. In A Library, No Empty Shelf Remains Empty For Long. Like Nature, Libraries Abhor A Vacuum, And The Problem Of Space Is Inherent In The Very Nature Of Any Collection Of Books.

The World Encyclopedia, The Universal Library, Exists, And It Is The World Itself.

I Know That Something Dies When I Give Up My Books, And That My Memory Keeps Going Back To Them With Mournful Nostalgia.

Each Book Was A World Unto Itself, And In It I Took Refuge.

I Have No Feelings Of Guilt Regarding The Books I Have Not Read And Perhaps Will Never Read; I Know That My Books Have Unlimited Patience. They Will Wait For Me Till The End Of My Days.

Every Library Is A Library Of Preferences, And Every Chosen Category Implies An Exclusion.

Existing Libraries, In Their Very Being, Seem To Question The Authority Of Those In Power.

For Borges, The Core Of Reality Lay In Books; Reading Books, Writing Books, Talking About Books. In A Visceral Way, He Was Conscious Of Continuing A Dialogue Begun Thousands Of Years Before And Which He Believed Would Never End.

As Readers, We Are Seldom Interested In The Fine Sentiments Of A Lesson Learnt; We Seldom Care About The Good Manners Of Morals. Repentance Puts An End To Conversation; Forgiveness Becomes The Stuff Of Moralistic Tracts. Revenge - Bloodthirsty, Justice-hungry Revenge - Is The Very Essence Of Romance, Lying At The Heart Of Much Of The Best Fiction.

Something About The Possession Of A Book - An Object That Can Contain Infinite Fables, Words Of Wisdom, Chronicles Of Times Gone By, Humorous Anecdotes And Divine Revelation - Endows The Reader With The Power Of Creating A Story, And The Listener With A Sense Of Being Present At The Moment Of Creation.

Old Or New, The Only Sign I Always Try To Rid My Books Of (usually With Little Success) Is The Price-sticker That Malignant Booksellers Attach To The Backs. These Evil White Scabs Rip Off With Difficulty, Leaving Leprous Wounds And Traces Of Slime To Which Adhere The Dust And Fluff Of Ages, Making Me Wish For A Special Gummy Hell To Which The Inventor Of These Stickers Would Be Condemned.

If The Book Is Second-hand, I Leave All Its Markings Intact, The Spoor Of Previous Readers, Fellow-travellers Who Have Recorded Their Passage By Means Of Scribbled Comments, A Name On The Fly-leaf, A Bus Ticket To Mark A Certain Page.

In The Dark, With The Windows Lit And The Rows Of Books Glittering, The Library Is A Closed Space, A Universe Of Self-serving Rules That Pretend To Replace Or Translate Those Of The Shapeless Universe Beyond.

Maybe This Is Why We Read, And Why In Moments Of Darkness We Return To Books: To Find Words For What We Already Know.

Entering A Library, I Am Always Stuck By The Way In Which A Certain Vision Of The World Is Imposed Upon The Reader Through Its Categories And Its Order.

If The Library Of Alexandria Was The Emblem Of Our Ambition Of Omniscience, The Web Is The Emblem Of Our Ambition Of Omnipresence; The Library That Contained Everything Has Become The Library That Contains Anything.

If The Library In The Morning Suggests An Echo Of The Severe And Reasonable Wishful Order Of The World, The Library At Night Seems To Rejoice In The World's Essential, Joyful Muddle.

I Enjoyed Learning The Poems, But I Didn't Understand Of What Use They Might Possibly Be. ‘they'll Keep You Company On The Day You Have No Books To Read,' My Teacher Said.

Slothful, Feeble, Pretentious, Pedantic, Elitist - These Are Some Of The Epithets That Eventually Become Associated With The Absent Minded Scholar, The Poor Sighted Reader, The Book Worm, The Nerd.

We Can Imagine The Books We'd Like To Read, Even If They Have Not Yet Been Written, And We Can Imagine Libraries Full Of Books We Would Like To Possess, Even If They Are Well Beyond Our Reacher, Because We Enjoy Dreaming Up A Library That Reflects Every One Of Our Interests And Every One Of Our Foibles--a Library That, In Its Variety And Complexity, Fully Reflects The Reader We Are.

The Readers Who Commited Suicide After Reading 'werther' Were Not Ideal But Merely Sentimental Readers.

Darkness Promotes Speech.

Every Reader Has Found Charms By Which To Secure Possession Of A Page That, By Magic, Becomes As If Never Read Before, Fresh And Immaculate.

One Book Calls To Another Unexpectedly, Creating Alliances Across Different Cultures And Centuries.

At Night, Here In The Library, The Ghosts Have Voices.

In Every Literate Society, Learning To Read Is Something Of An Initiation, A Ritualized Passage Out Of A State Of Dependency And Rudimentary Communication.

In My Fool Hardy Youth, When My Friends Were Dreaming Of Heroic Deeds In The Realms Of Engineering And Law, Finance And National Politics, I Dreamt Of Becoming A Librarian.

The Shelves Of Books We Haven't Written, Like Those Of Books We Haven't Read, Stretches Out Into The Darkness Of The Universal Library's Farthest Space. We Are Always At The Beginning Of The Beginning Of The Letter A.

Unpacking Books Is A Revelatory Activity.

The World That Is A Book Is Devoured Bya Reader Who Is A Letter In The World's Text; Thus A Circular Metaphor Is Created For The Endlessness Of Reading; We Are What We Read.

The Stories That Unfold In The Space Of A Writer's Study, The Objects Chosen To Watch Over A Desk, The Books Selected To Sit On The Shelves, All Weave A Web Of Echoes And Reflections Of Meanings And Affections, That Lend A Visitor The Illusion That Something Of The Owner Of This Space Lives On Between These Walls, Even If The Owner Is No More.

In A Library, No Empty Shelf Remains Empty For Long.

We Are Losing Our Common Vocabulary, Built Over Thousands Of Years To Help And Delight And Instruct Us, For The Sake Of What We Take To Be The New Technology's Virtues.

Reading Is The Occupation Of The Insomniac Par Excellence.

Deadlines Comes As A Surprise....superb: A New Genre, In Fact, Combining The Pleasures Of List-making With That Of Last-minute Eaves-dropping.

In No Way Am I Demeaning Writing Or Any Other Form Of Art Because It's Popular. What I'm Saying Is That Anything Fed Into The Industrial Machinery To Comply With Rules Of Size And Length And Shelf-life Has A Hard Time Surviving As Art.

It Used To Be That Readers Were Relegated Because They Considered Themselves Far Above Society, And So The Metaphor Of The Ivory Tower Developed. Now There's Still This Idea That The Reader Doesn't Take Part In The Social Game And In Politics, The Res Publica, But For Other Reasons: He Doesn't Do It Because He's Not Making Any Money.

Books May Not Change Our Suffering, Books May Not Protect Us From Evil, Books May Not Tell Us What Is Good Or What Is Beautiful, And They Will Certainly Not Shield Us From The Common Fate Of The Grave. But Books Grant Us Myriad Possibilities: The Possibility Of Change, The Possibility Of Illumination.

I Know My Time Will Come Soon Enough, But I Will Not Dwell On It. What Is The Purpose? We Might As Well Dwell On The Work Of Our Teeth Or On The Mechanics Of Our Walk. It Is There, It Will Always Be There, And I Don't Intend To Spend My Glorious Hours Looking Over My Shoulder To See Death's Icy Face.

I Don't Remember Ever Feeling Lonely; In Fact, On The Rare Occasions When I Met Other Children I Found Their Games And Their Talk Far Less Interesting Than The Adventures And Dialogues I Read In My Books.

At Night, Here In The Library, The Ghosts Have Voices.... The Various Qualities Of My Readings Seem To Permeate My Every Muscle, So That When I Finally Decide To Turn Off The Library Light, I Carry Into My Sleep The Voices And The Movements Of The Book I've Just Closed.

We Can Roam The Bloated Stacks Of The Library Of Alexandria, Where All Imagination And Knowledge Are Assembled; We Can Recognize In Its Destruction The Warning That All We Gather Will Be Lost, But Also That Much Of It Can Be Collected Again; We Can Learn From Its Splendid Ambition That What Was One Man's Experience Can Become, Through The Alchemy Of Words, The Experience Of All, And How That Experience, Distilled Once Again Into Words, Can Serve Each Singular Reader For Some Secret, Singular Purpose.

Without Leskov There Would Be No Bulgakov, No Chekhov, But Also No Garca Mrquez And Julio Cortzar. . . . Leskov Is The Essential Storyteller: He Does Not Portray Life, He Creates It In All Its Wonder And Terror And Magic.

I Like To Imagine That, On The Day After My Last, My Library And I Will Crumble Together, So That Even When I Am No More I'll Still Be With My Books.

Readers, Censors Know, Are Defined By The Books They Read.

The Starting Point Is A Question.

Evil Requires No Reason.

The Listeners Who Buy Books After A Reading Multiply That Reading; The Author Who Realizes That He Or She May Be Writing On A Blank Page But Is At Least Not Speaking To A Blank Wall May Be Encouraged By The Experience, And Write More.

But At Night, When The Library Lamps Are Lit, The Outside World Disappears And Nothing But The Space Of Books Remains In Existence.

A Book Brings Its Own History To The Reader.

In Any Of My Pages In Any Of My Books May Life A Perfect Account Of My Secret Experience Of The World.

We Seem To Live A Culture That Doesn't Want Blemishes. The Vision Of Most Beautiful Models... Airbrushed In Order To Be Seen As Perfect, Infects Our Notion Of How Literature Should Be Written.

At One Magical Instant In Your Early Childhood, The Page Of A Book—that String Of Confused, Alien Ciphers—shivered Into Meaning. Words Spoke To You, Gave Up Their Secrets; At That Moment, Whole Universes Opened. You Became, Irrevocably, A Reader.

The Love Of Libraries, Like Most Loves, Must Be Learned.

Thought Provoking

I Can Understand That There Are Those Who Can Think And Imagine The World Without Words, But I Think That Once You Find The Words That Name Your Experience, Then Suddenly That Experience Becomes Grounded, And You Can Use It And You Can Try To Understand It.

The Association Of Books With Their Readers Is Unlike Any Other Between Objects And Their Users.

Through Ignorance, Through Faith, Through Intelligence, Through Trickery And Cunning, Through Illumination, The Reader Rewrites The Text With The Same Words Of The Original But Under Another Heading, Re-creating It, As It Were, In The Very Act Of Bringing It Into Being.

Old Books That We Have Known But Not Possessed Cross Our Path And Invite Themselves Over. New Books Try To Seduce Us Daily With Tempting Titles And Tantalizing Covers.

In The Books By Ruy-sanchez We Find Again The Erotic Conviction That Allows Us To Read With All The Skin. The Erotic, In His Narratives Is Not A Subject Or A Phrase, It Is The Clay Of What They Are Made. In His Novels Every Experience, Trivial Or Extraordinary, Breaths Through The Erotic.

Ultimately, The Number Of Books Always Exceeds The Space They Are Granted.

A Writer Stops Writing The Moment He Or She Puts The Last Full Stop To Their Text, And At That Point The Book Is In Limbo And Doesn't Come To Life Until The Reader Picks It Up And The Reader Flips The Pages.

During The Day, The Library Is A Realm Of Order.

Life Happened Because I Turned The Pages.

The American Psychologist Julian Jaynes, In A Controversial Study On The Origin Of Consciousness, Argued That The Bicameral Mind - In Which One Of The Hemispheres Becomes Specialized In Silent Reading - Is A Late Development In Humankind's Evolution, And That The Process By Which This Function Develops Is Still Changing.

I Remember, As A Child, The Confusion Of Not Knowing What This Place Was Where I Was Supposed To Spend The Night: It's A Disquieting Experience For A Child. And What I Would Do Was Quickly Unpack My Books And Go Back To A Book I Knew Well And Make Sure The Same Text And The Same Illustrations Were There.

I Quickly Learned That Reading Is Cumulative And Proceeds By Geometrical Progression: Each New Reading Builds Upon Whatever The Reader Has Read Before.

It Hardly Matters Why A Library Is Destroyed: Every Banning, Curtailment, Shredding, Plunder Or Loot Gives Rise (at Least As A Ghostly Presence) To A Louder, Clearer, More Durable Library Of The Banned, Looted, Plundered, Shredded Or Curtailed.

I Wanted To Live Among Books.

If Justice Takes Place, There May Be Hope, Even In The Face Of A Seemingly Capricious Divinity.

Readers Are Bullied In Schoolyards And In Locker-rooms As Much As In Government Offices And Prisons.

Not Until I Came To Canada Did I Realize That Snow Was A Four-letter Word.

Libraries, Whether My Own Or Shared With A Greater Reading Public, Have Always Seemed To Me Pleasantly Mad Places, And For As Long As I Can Remember I've Been Seduced By Their Labyrinthine Logic, Which Suggests That Reason (if Not Art) Rules Over A Cacophonous Arrangement Of Books.

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