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The story is that a rich man who was near death was told that, despite all the wealth he had accumulated, he couldn’t take it with him. He thought a while and declared, “If I can’t take it with me, then I won’t go.” Some people love money just for the sake of
money, beyond the material benefits it brings.
A friend of mine once remarked that “if God made anything
better than money, he kept it for himself.”
He meant that, unfortunately.
When he was dying of cancer, I’m sure he would have sacrificed
every dime for more time on earth. Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not opposed to money.
It becomes a necessity if you want to eat and enjoy a few of the
pleasures the universe offers. But money gets no affection from me.
Now, books. That’s
another matter. All my life
I’ve loved books. That
includes magazines and the printed product.
But, mainly books. Long before I learned to read for myself, I
would crawl up in my father’s lap and listen to him read to me. Mostly, I enjoyed the funnies.
Gasoline Alley. Andy
Gump. Popeye.
It upset me when he read to himself and I would complain that he
was reading without moving his lips.
Sundays were special. We
would drive down a road, cut deep into the red clay by years of use, to
visit my great uncle and aunt. They
took the Sunday Atlanta paper with all its glorious comics. The colors thrilled me with drawings of the characters living
their lives in print. I anxiously awaited the day when I could master
the changing position of letters of the alphabet to form words that
translated into thoughts. The
first grade primer books were pure pleasure, with their illustrations
and brief sentences about Dick and Jane. Graduating into more sophisticated reading, I
was fascinated by Tarzan’s adventures in the jungle, by the cowboys
who rode the range for Zane Gray. Long
before I reached the real books, I enjoyed the great tales presented in
Classics Illustrated comic books. The
plots were there for The Corsican Brothers, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Then
I found the joy of the complete stories in print.
A book carried me into other worlds, unleashing my imagination
and imposing no boundaries on the mind. “It’s getting too dark for you to keep
reading,” I was warned. It
didn’t matter. When I
became absorbed in a book, I wouldn’t turn loose.
I read myself into having to start wearing glasses by the time I
started high school. No
regrets. The books and
reading enriched my life. The movies and later television offered
entertainment. Once in a
while, they teach something. Maybe
it’s a moral message. Maybe
it’s instructive. But
they rob you of something very important.
Imagination. Books and the printed word demand it.
If you read something and mental pictures don’t come with it,
you aren’t really reading. Radio offered some of that imagination, even
though it had been digested through someone else’s mind.
Inflection of the voice, background music and sounds give you
another’s interpretation without requiring your complete input. Books will have it no other way.
If an author has skillfully fashioned his story, the people
living within those pages will cavort through the reader’s mind and
share their adventures. At one time I realized there were so many books
I wanted to ready and didn’t have time to go through them all. I wished for some magical touch where I could just put my
hand on the book and absorb all that was within its covers. I took a shot at speed reading, but that was unsatisfactory
for a good book. Each word
should be savored with delicate taste.
Each thought should be shared with the author.
The printed word allows a reader of today walk with Plato in
ancient Greece and be stimulated by his thoughts thousands of years ago.
In the comfort and safety of an easy chair, the reader can ride with
Ivanhoe to joust with the evil knights supporting Prince John. Besides appreciating the content of books, I
just enjoy them for themselves. I
like the touch of the binding, the soft or coarse paper carrying the
print. When it comes to
books, I’m a pack rat. I
can’t bear to throw one away. As far as taking money with me when I go to
whatever hereafter awaits me, I don’t have enough to worry about and
that wouldn’t be my first choice anyway.
I hate to leave my books. But I can’t imagine a heaven—or even the
other place—without books.
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