The books I do not read

This week I came across the Japanese word tsundoku, which describes the phenomenon of acquiring books without actually reading them. I felt a little called out and at the same time relieved that tsundoku has been a thing for centuries. As my pile of unread books only keeps growing, I come home from the library with even more books that I read first, often because they need to be returned.

After searching for how I could better deal with a tendency towards tsundoku, I discovered that in Japan it is not seen as a negative trait. Unread books help us remain hopeful; they inspire us to keep alive the passion and enthusiasm with which we bought the books. Umberto Eco described the result of his own form of tsundoku as having an anti-library. For him it was a physical reminder of the transience of his knowledge, an homage to everything he did not know and what he would forget again.

My unread books are a memento mori, objects that make me conscious of my mortality. They remind me to bring forth something essential in the short time I have on earth. I look at my bookshelves daily and connect books to future plans and stalled projects. In this way my books keep me sharp, help me ward off distraction, and ask me whether I am doing the right things.

Let the winter do her work

Yet sometimes an uneasy feeling comes over me. In my attempts to understand my life a little better, I read words that all seem to circle around a great mystery, without ever fully articulating it. With my mind I grope in the dark, and by wanting to understand the unknown it feels as though I am trying to finish the game of life too quickly.

Winter shows me that everything must fall apart into that mystery. It grows darker by itself, until it cannot get any darker. Surrender helps me navigate that feeling, for I understand that winter must complete its work in me, withdrawn from my consciousness, autonomous and beyond my own will.

In rare, inspired moments I see a glimmer, like a reflection of the sun in a pond, and the unknown is briefly illuminated. When the sun sets, I need my hope for that light. So I dare to believe that there is a purpose, that the mystery in my life is moving towards something. Trusting this keeps me going until in early spring the light, out of the apparent nothingness, returns to my life once more.

I recognise the same mystery in my unread books. The books are the tangible reminder of everything I do not know and will never fully understand. Yet they are also an expression of my hope, which helps me get through the night. Until I open one of them, and begin anew.