In Celebration of Defiance

It is "Banned Books Week." What better way to celebrate than to read a banned book.

As always, my mind turns to Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451." In discussing media with Scott, I learned that he had never read the book. I was shocked. This should be a must-read for everyone.

I'm ashamed to admit, I've only read it once.

It was for high school senior AP English, and my monthly book report was due. As usual, I put it off and put it off. I needed something short to read. Word was that "Fahrenheit 451" was the shortest book on Ms. Hankin's list. We also conveniently owned a Book Club edition, so no trip to the library was necessary.

I could not put the book down. The images, they haunted me. The dreadful thought of knowledge going up in indifferent flames. The comfort that each of us can be a repository of knowledge if we just commit ourselves. The final notes, twining from the mouth of Quoheleth, were the song of seventeen-- I turned, I saw my seasons, I wondered what was the purpose.

I felt ashamed that there was little of worth that I myself had memorized. All I had was a few nonsense poems, and Sara Teasdale's "The Barter." I made promises to commit myself more to the words I love.

I have not filled my mind, but I have filled my heart and my shelves. I did add Frost's "The Road Not Taken." I have not quite got down pat Poe's "To Elizabeth." Most of Nash's "The Tale of Custard the Dragon" fits in a nice safe cage. Bits here & there that delight me, that echo. I have a small book that I write only the dearest in, so that one day someone might know me. Not word-for-word, but I know Margery William's "The Velveteen Rabbit" by heart. Love DOES make us real.

So, I retrieved a copy of Mr. Bradbury's book from my branch library. Starting tonight, I read a few pages aloud to Scott. The written word has power; the spoken word has magic.

I see this age have televisions that are bigger and flatter, that claim space that once belonged to art and books. I hear this age have a continuous sound track, buried deep within ears sealed by buds that will not bloom. I witness reports of "real" life insisting that it is "art," scripts passed out to the players and audiences alike. Things move faster, brighter, louder. The "Parlor Walls" have arrived and they scare me. I do not want them in my home. It is difficult to keep this computer, that "Smart phone," in their proper places as tools.

I shall have my books. I shall delight in the turn of phrase, that dance of words, the lyrics of voice that speaks no louder than the mind.

I shall read until my eyes open no more.