I was attacked by my bookcase yesterday. Really, I was. I am moving, you see, so I had to empty my bookcase. I bet that’s when it became angry. Want to know what happened? Read on!
I have long suspected that books are somehow not entirely devoid of life. Authors have put so much of themselves in these books, that parts of them must linger on within the pages. I always wonder whether sci-fi books wish they were e-books, or whether philosophical novels ponder the meaning of life. Adventure novels must long to go out and explore the world, while young-adult novels would definitely be on the look-out for their other half, lost on their own shelf. Whenever I’m in need of a specific book but not sure which one it is, I always feel some kind of spark inside of me. I imagine it must be a book reaching out to me, because it is conscious of my needs. As you can see, I usually consider books good-natured.
Bookcases, on the other hand, turn out to be evil. I bet they absorb some of the essence of the books that settle inside of them, becoming semi-conscious. They, like me, must get attached to all those wonderful stories. So when I was emptying my bookcase yesterday, it must have realised that it would miss his friends and would feel quite lonely.
However, the worst thing a bookcase must endure is being dismantled. After all, a bookcase that has been dismantled is nothing more than a collection of wooden boards. My bookcase must have realised that this was what it would happen to it, and it decided to rebel against me. When I tried to put it flat on the floor, on of the boards punched me square on the jaw. Next, realising I was startled, it rested its entire weight on me. I couldn’t hold it, and it fell on my legs. It took me at least a minute to calm the dreaded thing down, but eventually I managed to put it on the floor. My jaw still hurts, and there are massive bruises on my legs.
I have always hoped that, if it is my time to go, I would have a literary death. One that some of literature’s greatest creations would be proud of. Like Boromir, dying while making amends for his greed. Or like Sirius, simply vanishing. Or, even better, like Ivan Ilyich, who, after days of refusing to die, suddenly embraces Death. My death would be glorious, I hoped. There’s just one thing I had never considered:
I never thought the Fates would take a literary death quite this literally.
Have books (or their homes) ever physically hurt you? Did you ever feel bad for taking away books from their homes? Please let me know in the comments! Also, don’t forget to follow me for more book-related posts!
The Open Book 