Bibliophilia

Rehm Library
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

The early days of June 2008 found me settling into a summer-long assignment to a clinical pastoral education (CPE) program at Georgetown University Hospital in Washington DC. Simply stated, my CPE unit was intended to develop my skills and self-knowledge as a pastoral person, and to simultaneously apply them in the context of my responsibilities as a hospital chaplain. Other Jesuits had informed me that the program was intense and demanding– not only visits and conversations with patients and their families, but also the self-reflective writing assignments and group discussions with my colleagues in the program. Nevertheless, having just completed my second of three years of philosophy studies in St. Louis, I was eager for a change from the more abstract realms of thought and argument I encountered in many of my courses. At the same time, I anticipated that I would enjoy– if not need– some relaxing intellectual activity to balance out the emotional and spiritual focus I'd bring to my days (and regular on-call nights) at the hospital. Among the items I packed for my eastward sojourn were several novels, and in making my way through seven books that summer, I initiated a discipline of pleasure reading that I've successfully striven to sustain in subsequent years.

Yesterday morning, relaxing in the mild sunshine streaming through my window, waiting for laundry to cycle through the machines down the hall, I finished my tenth book of the academic year– Nathaniel Philbrick's In the Heart of the Sea, which documents and narrates the demise of a 19th-century Nantucket whaling ship, sent to its watery grave by an enraged sperm whale, that inspired Herman Melville's legendary classic Moby-Dick. More than a mere accomplishment– though I was pleased to extend my streak of double-digit pleasure reading into a fourth consecutive academic year– the occasion drew my attention to why I've become so fond of, dedicated to, and mildly passionate about reading. A growing volume of ink (physical and digital) is being applied to the issue of reading's impact upon students of various ages, as well as the existence (and effects) of various types and extents of "reading gaps" between children of different backgrounds, economic classes, household situations, and so on. A piece in today's New York Times Sunday Review section included a captivating quote from Franz Kafka: "a book must be the ax for the frozen sea inside us." I've become such a consistent and devoted reader not only for the diversion from my life's work, prayer, and travel that it offers, but also for the enlightening perspective– ranging from consonance to counterpoint– that it bestows upon any and all aspects of the life that I lead.

I believe that what one reads provides not only a glimpse into his or her being, but also shapes one's identity. When visiting friends and other Jesuit communities alike, I regularly find myself drawn to their bookshelves, as if some casual bibliographic analysis of the works held there might convey an enlightening insight, or perhaps more practically, some suggestions for my "to-read" list. Despite my vowed commitment and habitual preference for a simple lifestyle, I confess to having a far greater quantity of books now than the dozen I brought along when I entered the novitiate in August 2004. Works on Jesuit history and spirituality share shelf space with several volumes of poetry; anthologies of Native American stories, essays on distance running, and some postmodern literature rub elbows with classics from both the English- and Spanish-language canons. Quasi-deliberate arrangement of my books has yielded some intriguing pairings– J.R.R. Tolkien and Isabel Allende; Robert Frost and Mary Oliver; Graham Greene and Nathan Englander– in the ordered linear spaces of my small library, let alone the imaginings of the minds of literary aficionados. Having recently enjoyed a conversation with the author of my current book– Eliza Griswold's The Tenth Parallel: Dispatches from the Fault Line Between Christianity and Islam– after a lecture she delivered on campus, I'm newly curious about the potential lurking in seemingly casual interactions between writers and readers.

A relaxed discipline that began as an escape of sorts– curling up at night with John Steinbeck's East of Eden after a long day at the hospital followed by the refreshing company and conversation shared with my Jesuit brothers amidst daily Mass and dinner– has happily evolved into a well-worn circular path. I read to immerse myself in a different reality, to learn about new topics, and to encounter a diverse array of characters. Yet the knowledge, insights, and interactions into which I'm drawn by my bibliophilia continually brings me back into the intricately rich reality in which I dwell, placing me squarely in the midst of a story where I am both author and subject, one character among many, charting a course with determination yet also quite clueless about the content of the next page. Let the story continue!