Upon receiving the awaited prompt, we, with teary eyes, activated the e-mail link activating the pre-arranged, “Virtual Ceremony” of last rites conducted in loving memory of the long and beneficial life of the recently expired, well-known decedent, the “Printed Book” (of blessed memory). Notice of the observance of the sacred funeral had been, for weeks, widely disseminated through the public media. The general expectation is that it will be attended, notably, by mourners, aged forty years and older. It was intimately revealed that the cherished decedent passed away by slow, almost imperceptible degrees, and without discernable physical symptoms, situate on an accessible, but rather dusty shelf. The New York City Medical Examiner determined the official cause of death to be unsuspicious and attributable to the advanced stage-4 (metastasized) condition of non-use.
Selected relics were displayed, honoring the vast literary universe of revered decedents, which consisted of copies of, “Huckleberry Finn,” by Mark Twain, “Absalom, Absalom,” by William Faulkner, and “Moby Dick,” by Herman Melville, were centrally displayed on a purple-colored velvet mantle reverentially set placed on an ornately carved mahogany table. Two symbolic wooden rocking chairs with cushions were placed on either side of a tall, softly lit reading lamp, a visible pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a glass of medium sherry were ceremoniously placed near the symbolic volumes, each of which contained at its flyleaf page a decorated bookmark. The intonation of an organ’s rich and uniquely dramatic rendition of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in G Minor engulfed the respectful silence in the dimly lit, sanctuary.
The appointed gray-bearded director of the memorial proceedings, dressed in a vested tweed suit, striped bowtie, and dark brown, horn-framed spectacles, spoke softly but emotionally to the virtual attendees, sadly extolling the immeasurable growth of human enlightenment, the historic advances of Humankind, stemming from the deceased, in time starting from writings on ancient papyrus, manuscripts, engraving, the development of the printing press, the Guttenberg Bible, the sociological and artistic advent of the novel, inclusive of its respective development in style and context, of the literary categories of the Victorian, Modern and Post-Modern. He then emotionally broke out into a course of involuntary and tearful sobbing. After partly recovering his composure, he invited the virtual attendees, to, if desired, offer any additional remarks on the occasion.
After a brief pause, Ms. Hortense T. Ipecac was the first responder. She passionately spoke on the populist eviction of humanism in society. She started with the crass re-occupation of the acceptable natural channels of human expression and aesthetic creativity by insensitive electronic “squatters,” thoughtlessly and irresponsibly, purporting to constitute a more facile and purportedly efficient substitute. As part of the growing social atmosphere of thoughtlessness and ignorant insensitivity, she stated, they mindlessly sacrificed the opportunity for internal growth by the allegedly “time-consuming,” satisfaction and ubiquitously fruitful indulgence in good literature.
The second virtual responder was Mrs. Anna Flaxes, age 87, from the West Bronx. Ms. Flaxes had been for 35 years a school librarian, before her retirement at the local High School and personally, an avid, lifelong devotee of Jane Austin. It was hard to discern her emotional words due to an unfortunate combination of an apparently, malfunctioning laptop speaker and because of her loose and ill-fitting dentures. Nevertheless, her emotion-packed message, in essence, was that the purported “advancements” of the “digital age had cruelly deprived her, a lonely and house-bound widow, of whatever scant pleasures still available to her, such as the reading of traditional hand-held books, telephonic conversation, letter writing, and general neighborly attendance at the local movie house. There appeared to be numerous other telephonic and e-mail responses from the maturely aged participants of the virtual ceremony, uniformly attesting, in one way or another, to the diminution of the quality of life, spiritual and aesthetic by the relevant decease of print books.
However, one response seems to be uniquely preponderant and memorable, notably expressive of the ubiquitous and nuanced reactions to the loss of intimate and fulfilling pleasure derived from the ownership and enjoyable use of the printed book, viz., the honored decedent.
A memorable call-in comment from Mr. Marquis Desadowitz, of Bellport, Long Island related to a certain nuanced experience with printed books; particularly, a personal ritual procedure undertaken before commencing to read a newly purchased book. In the interest of conveying the full impact of the caller’s singularly emotional expression of dismay regarding the extant decease and retirement of print literature on his menu of meaningful life experiences, we will, as best as we can recall, replicate the precise substance of the same.
[The recalled statement] “I would in a mood of anticipation, go to Barnes and Noble to enthusiastically purchase a new, hard-covered novel. I enjoyed the abundant feeling of success in locating a copy of my desired choice among the seemingly copious and abundant attractive titles offered for selection and purchase. After purchase, I was invariably impatient to bring the book home.”
[Continuing] “It may be strange to relate but before my indulgence in the immeasurable pleasure, personal benefit, and thoughtful diversion, derived from my reading a brilliant work of a talented and erudite author, I candidly confess, to a rather, admittedly exotic, but pleasant, tactual and sensual experience derived from a regular ritual, personally performed following the purchase of a new hardback novel; now, disappointingly, anachronistic, due to the tragic decease, being memorialized.”
[Still continuing] “The stated, coveted, procedure was described as follows: (1) I would bring the book home and, after unwrapping, lay it down on my reading table to admiringly view for no less than five minutes, then, (2) pick up the book, savoring the cool impression of the shiny decorated book jacket and hold it close to my chest, for a brief moment in the pleasant context of a successfully gained acquisition, then, (3) inhale the familiar subtle aroma of a newly printed hardcover. (4) Slowly open the book, listening for the almost inaudible “crack” of the new binding (5) carefully and surgically, slit the page or two, inevitably, still joined together, (6) sit back comfortably and commence the joyous and diverting act of reading the aesthetic word (often of a felt “familiar friend”). Now, I have irretrievably, lost all this.”
N.B. We would, as a consoling and comforting assurance to all mourners, declare that despite the popular surrender to the artificial, facile availability of robotic and digital “advancements,” libraries and bookstores valiantly and beneficially, continue to welcome all readers of (actually surviving) printed hardcover works, eternally imparting, implicit wisdom, aesthetic art, and immense personal pleasure.
-p.
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