Every Book Chooses Its Reader
Today I finished reading a book, "The Book of Form and Emptiness" by Ruth Ozeki. Ruth Ozeki is a wondrous writer, and this book, much like her book "My Year of Meats" has left a profound impact on my being.
This book belongs to a boy named Benny. After his father's death, Benny starts to hear voices — and he takes us through the internal world of objects, their thoughts and feelings. The bat he is holding is aggressive, but that is not its fault; the bat simply wants to hit. The scissors, manufactured in China, ramble in a language he does not understand, but he knows they want to cut. The marble, round and smooth edged, simply says a pleasant weeee. The dolls in his psychiatrists office are sad and fearful from the stories they have heard. When a bird hit the glass window and died, it was Benny that felt its pain. Not of the bird, but that of the window — it never meant to hurt anyone.
Later in the book Benny is recognised by a Zen Buddhist Monk as the embodiment of what would be called Kannon, the Bodhisattva of compassion and mercy. We are all interconnected, beings of a bigger emptiness. My form morphs into the couch I am sitting on, the air I am breathing, the sweater I am wearing. There is no fixed edge to what I am — I am empty of a separate self. But all of us are as such. We share that boundlessness, and so we should show compassion to everything. If there is no wall between us, why would we ever choose to hurt what is also us? It takes Benny a while to get there though. Through various encounters, fights, trials, and mean, hurtful voices, Benny comes into contact with the one voice that was present all along, but merely was able to manifest through a series of unfortunate events — "The Book".
But what is most remarkable about Benny's book is that it is not simply a book about Benny's story. It is a being in its own right, a helping hand, a storyteller for Benny, his mother, and others who pass through its pages. It chose Benny as its keeper. It is an advocate for all books in libraries, the books at the bottom of your shelf covered in dust, the books that are bestsellers, but most importantly, it is a reminder of the book that is inside of all of us, our own book that has yet to be written.
Books are breathing beings, living through us humans as we read and retell their stories. Books are beautiful. Beings of words that first existed as mere vibrations of air that are then assimilated into these beautiful constructions. Written, printed, typed. First words, then from words to sentences, sentences to paragraphs, and from paragraphs to pages. It is through books that we are able to find ourselves, our souls, our livelihood. We exist in the stories we tell and that are told of us. We owe our lives to books, and books owe their lives to us. I recommend everyone to read this book, Benny's book, so that it may inspire you to find your own.
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