Some books are trash

I walked in buoyed up with bookish enthusiasm; I left sagging under pseudo-intellectual self-congratulatory bubbles and bangs.

We see readers as the bearers of the thinker’s torch, but the booksellers I visited with my wife and children today bore little resemblance to that image of scholarly devotion. Instead I saw legions of trashy romance novels (some raising the bar by excluding vampires and the paranormal, I suppose). In the philosophy section, I had hoped to find the original works of the philosophers themselves, but instead I found shallow and selective examinations of trendy themes in popular movies and tv shows. 

The selection on the shelves proved more interesting material than the content of the volumes. I could read in the selection that this branch of “the great conversation” was restricted to ego-boosting pseudo-intellectualism, brain teasers, time wasting entertainment, and a coffee shop.

The result of my visit was alienating and offensive. I feel disappointment bordering on grief for the clientele of this bookseller; I feel offended by the writers and publishers who produced the selection.

Reading and the reading culture are not in themselves a higher form of entertainment. Only good books are good. Being a book is not enough for something to be good. Some books are trash, and it seems from my recent foray into the bookseller’s shop, that the trash is common and accepted.

May we perpetually read toward the light, better and better rather than worse and worse.