Table-Talk: Question # 2

What would you like an ideal book.....

The discussion from my last post took a life on its own both on and outside of my virtual table: why do we write, why do we create… From devoted readers to reluctant writers, aspiring authors and those just journaling for themselves, one thing is clear: stories matter, whether we read them, write them, or just live them.

Obviously, good writing takes more than just writing ...it takes reading, reflection, and a ....life experience.

Conclusion: no winners, no losers here everyone is free to express themselves through any form of art, including writing, even if not everyone is destined to be the next Austen or Picasso.

But I keep wondering… maybe our need to write or create is really just our way of leaving a little mark behind, footprint that we existed. Maybe it is our attempt to not be forgotten, to make sure our voice is still somewhere out there… even if it is through a badly written blog post. Perhaps, deep down, we are all just chasing that magical “I was adored once too”¹ moment. Would you agree?

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For this post, I have decided to stay in the realm of books and writing, with a twist.

Credit: The school of Life

A book that does not exist (yet)

Recently, my husband read a book called: Down Below, (original Dutch title Onderlangs, 2007) by the Dutch artist Paul Bogaers. This is not an average novel. This is a Magnum Opus of 400-pages, fictional work patched up together entirely from clippings of other books: mostly old, obscure ones, as the author points out himself. Whether Bogaers was trying to create the ideal book, or just trying to prove that this is also a valid way to make a book, I honestly can not say. What I can say though is that it was difficult to read. I gave up at page 24. Still, it is definitely a unique book, which brings us back to our earlier conversation: Why do we write, why do we create?

If I try to create my own “ideal” book, the kind that really explains me something, I would probably patch together quotes from Carl Sagan’s cosmic wonder, Gabor Maté’s psychological insight, Jane Austen’s wit, Umberto Eco’s depth... and end up with a deliciously unreadable but very unique mishmash that would not tell me anything that I didn’t read or know already.

And that, I suppose, is the point: there is no such thing as an ideal book. The “ideal book” is a moving target, shaped not just by the content, but by the reader’s mood. It depends entirely on when I read it, what situation I am in, and what state of mind I happen to be in at the time. Every book I have ever read has told me something, even if it was just: “This is not my cup of tea.”

A “cosy crime” novel might be my ideal book around Christmas, providing it tells me eventually whodunit. Re-reading Jane Austen is my escape when I am physically exhausted or mentally drained. Somehow, her books always tell me something I missed the last time around.

What really matters to me is how a book makes me feel. I am still searching for one that gives me butterflies, joy, anticipation, that magical feeling I had when I first read Pride and Prejudice (Austen, 1813) at the age of 12 and unlocked my love for reading. Many books have come close but none have quite matched that feeling. Soo….the search continues.

But if I must answer the question—“What I would like an ideal book to explain to me?”…then here it is:

I would love to find a book that explains what was out there before the Big Bang. I know there are theories, but in truth, we don’t know. Also, we have no proof of God’s existence, but also no proof of God’s non-existence. It is a paradox and I guess the older I get, the more the open atheist in me starts flirting with the hidden agnostic in me.

That is the book I am looking for. If it will turn out to be the ideal book, only time will tell. But as far as I know…it has not been written yet. And no, I am not talking about Dan Brown’s Origin (2017). Those are not the answers I am looking for.

So here I am, thinking about a book that probably does not exist, the one that says everything and nothing, all at once. The one that makes me feel twelve again, and a little older and wiser too. Until then, I’ll keep reading a mix of things, muddle through or giving up eventually on the tricky ones, and letting Jane Austen to quietly keep me company from my bedside table.

And maybe that is enough. Maybe that is the whole point of reading.

Do you remember the book that made you feel something special?
If you could wish a book into existence, what would it be about?

1. Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, 1601–1602