The Fate of the Two Books and Your Book
Al-Jahiz (776–868) said: “Reading is another’s mind added to your own.” I encountered this statement early on, when my Arabic language teacher explained its meaning to us, and it may well have been the direct cause of my love for reading. However, what truly cemented that love was my first novel: Maxim Gorky’s *Mother*. At that time, I discovered that reading transports its reader to worlds inaccessible by any other means. From that moment on, I began buying books, and acquiring a new one became a joy that shook my heart.
Years passed quickly, and it feels like yesterday when I fixed my first wooden shelf on the wall. I spent days gazing at my few small books upon it, admiring them as if they were a treasure. Today, everything has changed. The equation governing the relationship between the book and its owner has shifted, to the point where the fate of my library—my most precious possession in life—is suspended in mid-air, without a home or guarantee.
I stood sorrowfully before this reality when a friend called to inform me that the library of one of the most prominent and famous Arab writers of the twentieth century was up for sale, and that his heirs were seeking a sum of money to help them cope with the hardships of living. He told me that one of the writer’s sons had stated, in essence: “The books belonged to my father; he used them as he wished. Now they belong to us, and we may dispose of them as we please.”
This remark prompted me to reflect on the fate of my own library. I know my daughter will keep some books and share others, but what about the entire collection, comprising nearly one hundred thousand volumes? This is especially concerning given my tenure at the National Council for Culture, Arts and Letters, where I witnessed with my own eyes the fate of libraries donated to the council. They were moved to a corner of the National Library, tagged with a small placard reading, “Library of the late writer...”, and that was the end of it. No one approached them; only dust maintained a relationship with them. Rarely would a researcher pass by once every year or two to inspect a single book among thousands.
What will be the fate of my library, and of dozens of libraries owned by friends, containing hundreds of thousands of books? The direct, perhaps shocking, answer is: loss. One library may be moved to a new corner, becoming its grave; another may be sold to a bookseller who undervalues its worth; a third may be thrown onto the street. This is not pessimism, but the reality of a generation of children and youth who grow up without a genuine connection to books or reading. Where such a connection exists, it is through an iPad screen or a mobile phone.
In recent days, while contemplating writing this article, I asked several young men and women whether they enjoyed collecting books or having their own libraries. Their expressions were answer enough. However, one of them, the daughter of a thinker and writer, told me: “My uncle Talal collects books and builds a library, and I have the Library of Congress in my phone.” When I remained silent, looking at her, she added: “Don’t be upset! This is the reality. We are a generation that reads without burdening ourselves by carrying books or searching for a special place for them.”
I admired her honesty and became convinced that the relationship of younger generations with books differs entirely from what it meant to us. We loved books as a path to thought and a means of pleasure, whereas today’s youth love specific books, reading only what interests them, all through computer, iPad, or phone screens. Their hands do not touch paper, their pens do not leave marginal notes, and their hearts do not cling to sentences that remain present in their consciousness.
Forgive me, Al-Jahiz, whose towering bookshelves collapsed upon him, burying him beneath them. The world has changed completely, but your sentence remains true, and will continue to do so, even after all libraries reside in our pockets and disappear from our walls.
Talal Al-Rafai
