On Books: A Poem
Books,
Books,
they liberate my mind,
from the prejudice of the crowd, laziness of my psychology
of which the elite and powerful fain to dine.
The world is complex — can’t be known with views of one kind:
Such plot in the short-term feels comforting, but long term blind.
One ought to, instead, listen confessions that transcend space and time,
from Übermensch, flâneur, manqué, who wrote in various culture and clime,
because slowly but surely, they break one’s habits to nod and align,
Making one confidently announce: “I read, therefore I am”
even — if it’s a crime
Books,
they humble my soul,
make my unperturbed, by the whims and moralizings
from which egoism gushes out of control.
The point of reading, is to put the deluge under constant patrol,
to tame the seas of conceit — that is my life-long goal.
Their wisdom, shallows my vanity, exposes dormant terrains,
to plant seeds of thought, breed species of insights,
setting up an entire ecosystem on great untrodden plains.
“There is grandeur in this view of life,” a reader exclaims,
because though the horticulturalists are gone, their legacy remains —
They grace our spirit with their opulent remains.
Books,
they dilate my senses,
to hope, to change, to gain, to lose — to immerse the human condition to its densest.
People say you only live one — that’s an irreparable law,
but why live once when you can live hundreds without exiting the door?
With mere books, we defy what nature’s tyranny foresaw:
to cheat mortality, to befriend pasts who turn our eyes burn and thaw;
to cheat biology, to explore worlds where no one else ever saw.
Reading is the will to escape serfdom, and the desire for fantasy and awe,
rejecting victuals of the present, while demanding something better to gnaw.
As Nietzsche writes: “A thing denied is a thing worth striving for,”
isn’t that the meaning of life,
and nothing more?
So read my friend, read,
when reading has never been made so easy;
So read my friend, read,
when reading is by large costs no more than a penny.
The fact that no one really reads makes me frown with asperity:
don’t they know books transverse dimensions,
unrivalled by modern playthings by a plenty?
Imagine with me, seeing Washington, Lincoln, staring our world with envy,
for which literature has evolved into unprecedented amounts and accessibility;
imagine with me, seeing young men and young women forswear privilege of the 21st century
but for late men and late women, they can only ogle,
vainly fighting for entry!
In these reclusive times,
I urge you to allot reading as an addition.
An addition to your life,
for benefits that I’ve expressed with reasonable precision.
To those who read, great! Let’s keep preaching this up-lifting vision!
To those yet to, I shall advise allowing your life for careful revision,
and ask, “ to be or not to be?”,
if that — is still a question.
Note:
Nitimur in vetitum (Latin) used by Friedrich Nietzsche in his book Ecce Home is better translated as “we strive for what is forbidden”.
[Written by: Yew Jun Hao]