Merlyn knows best

On my bedside table sit a lamp, a clock, a coaster, and thirteen books. They cover a range of topics about which I often pontificate to my wife and other unwary listeners: medieval literature, evolution, language, theology, physics, writing, myth, the geological formation of fjords, and ocean floor cartography. The mound continuously grows as I visit bookstores or libraries, which, of course, I do regularly. Every night is a battle to decide which book I shall read, and it is truly stressing. Most of the time I cannot make up my mind, so I pick three or four books out of the heap and set them next to me on the bed. I hope to read each of them, but I invariably get hooked into whichever I choose first and neglect the others until the following night. But there is the special case of the short story which allows for greater flexibility. At the suggestion of my friend Paul (cheers Paul), I recently checked out a selection of mysteries by Isaac Asimov (Paul actually suggested some of his other works, but the library was fresh out). Not only are the mysteries entertaining, but their brevity also allows me multiple genres of entertainment in one night. Capital, I say.

The only problem is that in this edition, Asimov himself makes a few brief comments at the beginning of each mystery. As a prescript to the first story I read, he mentions how obvious the solution is - apparently I'm an idiot.

But the point is that bibliophiles like myself (and many of you, I dare say) can hop, skip, and jump from genre to genre with the gracious help of our local bookmongers and lenders. I haven't been around too long, but from what I can tell, the availability of books today is absolutely staggering compared to that of even thirty or forty years ago. The collections at the library are about what they have always been (except those of university libraries, which have greatly expanded due to the internet), but chain bookstores like Barnes & Noble and Borders have put thousands of additional options at the fingertips of the consumer. And if these still do not have the required volume, Amazon is sure to provide.

Unfortunately, along with the many wonderful books that this expansion makes accessible, mountains of worthless books are also strewn around us. Many books simply restate the ideas or plots of previous books, and I am actually fine with that to some extent. Each generation needs its own authors to recast the most important ideas in life, and that has always been the case. But aside from these, the refuse that populates bookshelves is almost comical. From the lexical pornography of the harlequin novel to the ten billionth Lord of the Rings copycat to the endless stream of self-help and fast-money pyramid scheme books to the infernal mindlessness of many modern works, good books are slowly being overtaken by commercialism. As a Christian, one of the other problems that irks me is the incessant flow of poorly written Christian metaphoric novels. This is one category that we could probably ignore for several generations before needing to recast it. But even worse is the conspicuous money grubbing of the authors of series like Left Behind, first intended as three books, then seven, and finally filling out at a whopping sixteen.

One cause for the multiplication of poorly written books is that publishers are afraid to reject the voice of the minority, even if the work is utterly terrible, for fear of being called racist. This problem is especially evident at the university level, where introductory literature classes are often full of books by minority authors regardless of the books' merits. Harold Bloom, noted Shakespeare critic, says it best in his book Genius:

"I was a sweeter person before our universities yielded to supposed social benignity and chose texts for teaching largely on the basis of the racial origin, gender, sexual orientation, and ethnic affiliations of the New Authors, past and present, whether or not they could write their way out of a paper bag."

So true.

The more subtle problem is that these days anyone can publish, even in nonfiction, whether or not the information contained in their books is true. So when Thomas Cahill, a supposedly reputable historian, publishes a book entitled How the Irish Saved Civilization, we are led to believe that the Irish really did save civilization. The book is right there in the history section along with Herodotus, Tacitus, the Beards, the Durants, and all the rest. But Cahill's facts are all mixed up, and in reality there is little evidence for his thesis that "without the mission of the Irish monks, who single-handedly refounded European civilization...the world that came after them would have been an entirely different one - a world without books." The Irish monks were not the only ones copying books, as he proposes. I'm quite certain we would still have books without the Irish monks. But to the unsuspecting reader, Cahill's premise may be believable.

Thus, the availability of books is both a blessing and a curse. It allows us to construct massive towers of diverse genre on our bedside tables, but it also clutters our bookstores, libraries, and educational establishments with rubbish. I have to conclude, though, that the benefits outweigh the detriments. I would rather have access to all the books I desire while having to winnow out the garbage than to be unable to learn as much as I please. And I suppose the task of separating the worthwhile from the worthless also educates. While tricky books like Cahill's still bother me, the pleasure of learning is too great to ignore.

T.H. White sums it up nicely via Merlyn, sage of Arthurian legend:
"The best thing for being sad is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails....Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you."