Books that spoil us

Nowadays, it's common for municipal libraries to have a shelf of books to give away. In practice, it's a shelf of books to give and receive. People aren't supposed to just take books, but to bring them as well. I admit I've practiced the art of taking much more than the art of bringing.

The Oeiras Municipal Library has been a second home for the Cavaco family over the years. We've done homework there, met friends, had unexpected encounters, written books, broken bones—everything. Hence, a good portion of what I read comes not only from the neat and organized shelves in the main room, but also from the one where the books can be kept for us.

As a Christian who believes we are saved by what we read (or perhaps I wouldn't be a Protestant, stubborn in my belief in "Scripture alone"), I also believe that what we read cannot be entirely predicted. That is, we shouldn't just read what we should, we should also read what we didn't expect to read. In fact, we often even read what we shouldn't read. This means that the blessed reader will also be the one who read outside the predictable, official, and canonical bibliography.

What does it mean to read outside the predictable, official, and canonical bibliography? It's, for example, reading a book that appeared on the shelf at the municipal library. It's reading outside of expectations, outside of the list we've written down, outside of what we thought was relevant to us. Ultimately, to read seriously, you have to read outside of yourself. If everything we read reflects your personality, the world is like Narcissus's sad river.

I won't go so far as to say that these unexpected books have been the most impactful. I've been getting some serious bites. What's more, since I have a hard time abandoning a book halfway through (deep-seated guilt systems), I make a point of holding on even when they're no longer worth it (which also provides me with an interesting experience: reading without pleasure). Unexpected books prevent our lives from becoming artificially literary.

An artificially literary life is one in which writing solidifies the reader's personality. It's important for writing to also ruin the reader's personality. Readers with solid personalities are a bore. I'll give a simple example: a Book Fair is an unbearable event. Let's admit it. I've been there too, and I've even made a fool of myself by signing autographs at a serious publisher. But any gathering of solid readers quickly devolves into a more sophisticated version of a parade of flesh-and-blood giants. When the big heads are made of wood, they're more endearing.

So I'll end with a piece of advice: read the unrelated book on the shelf. A cheesy self-help book (I just finished "The Road Less Traveled" by M. Scott Peck a few days ago), a dreary contemporary classic ("The Broom of the System" by David Foster Wallace), a forgotten high school novel ("Eurico, the Presbyter" by Alexandre Herculano), a moving British gem with those infallible Penguin covers ("Silas Marner" by George Eliot), a semi-technical New York Times bestseller you've never heard of ("Rapt" by Winifred Gallagher). One thing that's right about reading the book that seems wrong is freeing ourselves from a consolidated literary existence.