“Tolle lege; tolle lege”
Some good friends of mine left for college today. It was not easy to see them go, even though I knew it would be best for all concerned. They had been living in my study for many years — some of them since I first arranged space for them in the late ’40s. Others arrived, from time to time, in the decades following, a few into the ’90s. It was getting crowded, but what really made their exodus inevitable was our decision to move to Covenant Manor in Minneapolis.
One could speak of the friends that I packed off to North Park College in 39 boxes as a part of my library, but that seems too impersonal. I regard them rather as a community or society, a kind of ecclesia, of writers, editors, poets, and artists who stimulate me to think, understand, rejoice, act, and worship.
The room in our place at the Manor that we have designated as a study will have space for the authors who missed the trip to North Park this time. Their day will come, but for now I am pleased to have a place for the remnant in Minnesota.
It was really difficult to decide who would go and who would stay. For the most part, those who found themselves in the 39 boxes were the ones with whom I had not dialogued for years. Some had written on subjects about which I had lost interest. Others had written new editions of their work. There were some that I just knew I would never have the time to read. Still other writers, just because of space restrictions, would have to be consulted at Minnesota libraries or through a CD ROM.
It was particularly hard to decide the fate of my Swedish language books. Would I ever have the time, energy, and interest to read Nathan Söderblom, Hjalmar Lindroth, Gottfrid Billing, Pontus Vikner, Einar Tegen, Tor Andrae, Gustaf Aulén, Torsten Bohlin, Valter Lindström, and others in the original? Probably not — their books have been sent off to North Park’s Scandanavian collection. On the other hand, the early pietistic text-only, “big little book” hymnals — Sionsharpan, Sions Basun, and Nordiske Sange — will tag along.
And what about the writings of my academic mentor, Bishop Anders Nygren? While preparing a dissertation on his thought, I had read everything he ever published — including some great titles: Religiöst Apriori (Religious Apriori), Dogmatikens vetenskapliga grundläggning (The Scientific Foundation of Dogmatics), and Filosofi och motivforskning (Philosophy and Motif Research). Nygren, in the Spring of ’64 when I was trying to get a handle on his thought, graciously read and listened to my translations and critical comments of his philosophy of religion. I spent many hours in his delightful study at Helgonavägen 10 in Lund. Because his English was about as good as my Swedish, we each carried on our extended discussions in our respective mother tongues. My interest in the pages, which the late Bishop Nygren defended to the letter, has lagged a bit. Though some of his books must go, several, along with those of a strange shelf-fellow, pietist P. P. Waldenström, will stay.
These literary friends, my books, came to live together in my study by various routes and circumstances — purchases, gifts, desk copies, library discards, and so forth. While taking inventory, I found several books that didn’t belong to me. I hope that Calvin Katter, Douglas Cedarleaf, James Anderson, and Glen Wiberg, now that their lost, wayward volumes are returned to them, will in their mercy declare amnesty. The fines could be staggering!
One book in my collection that has both intrigued and puzzled me for some time is by the popular philosopher, Mortimer J. Adler, and bears the unusual title, How to Read a Book. It is one of those chicken-and-egg deals — you have to be able to read a book before you find out how to read a book. Adler makes some important points, but a problem I have with his approach is that people select and read books quite differently, from very diverse perspectives and interests. A how-to-read-a-book book assumes, wrongly I think, that what Professor Adler derives from his reading will likely satisfy us all.
Beyond the question of how to read a book is the question of why read a book. Here too, because of dissimilar interests and purposes, many answers to such a question are possible. One I appreciate is mentioned in Richard Attenborough’s excellent film, Shadowlands, based on the life of C. S. Lewis. A student in the movie recalls that his father told him: “Read a book and you’ll never be alone.”
John Cowper Powys develops the same point:
All intimate and intense reading is a kind of secret dialogue between the writer and one’s own soul . . . . Think how narrow, in reality, is every mortal person’s circle of human acquaintanceship . . . . Entering the world of books, in place of a restricted circle of a dozen intimates, we find offered to our fellowship a vast and spacious Limbo, crowded with the undying dead. (The Meaning of Culture, 211)
Authors, some dead for years and years, can come to life again amid the yellowed pages and become lifetime companions. From the printed word, thanks to old Gutenberg, one may respond to living voices from the past and present which instruct, inspire, bless, and disturb. Läsare (readers) knew, and continue to know, this well.
Edgar A. Guest, in his poem, “The Fellowship of Books,” expresses other thoughts about reading, and sharing, books:
I care not who the man may be,
Nor how his tasks may fret him,
Nor where he fares, nor how his cares
And troubles may beset him,
If books have won the love of him,
Whatever fortune hands him,
He’ll always own, when he’s alone,
A friend who understands him.
Though other friends may come and go,
And some may stoop to treason,
His books remain, through loss or gain,
And season after season
The faithful friends for every mood,
His joy and sorrow sharing,
For old time’s sake, they’ll lighter make
The burdens he is bearing.
And so, it is sad to come to the parting of the ways and have to say, “So long, old friends.” A professor giving away his or her books is like a carpenter or plumber giving away his or her tools. It is a traumatic experience, even though you still have some left. You just hope that those you parted with fall into receptive hands. Use is all important — books arranged on shelves, even bearing impressive titles, contribute neither knowledge, wisdom, inspiration, education, self-understanding, nor life companions. Enrichment of experience occurs only as one follows the counsel given long ago to St. Augustine through a child’s song: “Tolle lege; tolle lege — Take up and read; take up and read.”