Books Save Lives

i)

Can books really save our lives? We have heard these arguments before, especially from those who value reading above all else. Is everything we read sacred? Does everything we read relate to our own salvation and the salvation of our fellow man? Most answers are not that simple and I would vouch that this answer will not be simple either.

In one of my correspondences with Fr. James Schall, he wrote that yes, books can save our lives but only proper books. Does this mean that there are books, which take away from our being? Are there books, which will make us weaker as human beings? Maybe so. Or maybe I have always read “proper” for most of my life, whose words have nourished my soul and have made me ask incredibly difficult questions.

During the war, I read Dostoevsky. I am positive that upon learning this, most people would find this rather strange, if not counter-intuitive. Why would I read Russian realism in the midst of the war? Why not indulge myself in a fantasy novel, away from the dirt and blood of the war that I witnessed every day? Simple answer is, I could not. I have always gravitated toward realism, toward “loving reality,” as von Balthasar writes. Dostoevsky led me into the world of storytelling and questioning. It also spoke to my inner struggle, even if were not completely aware of the meaning of the spiritual question at that age. I have always been a kind of a Romantic and the human and existential drama in Russian literature found its way straight into my heart and followed another path towards my mind. The soul of the storytelling was attempting to make whole.

For the analytical satisfaction of my being, I read mysteries. Mainly Agatha Christie mysteries. If there was at any point a probability of keeping my mind off the war, it was during my enjoyment of the mysteries. I read them by the meek candlelight, straining my eyes, letting the light of the pseudo-candle that was made warm my forehead. Warmth was not the only side effect: my forehead was mostly blackened from the flame, as if someone made an imprint of their ash-covered hand. But when you’re trying to figure out what will Hercule Poirot solve next and by then you have become immune to the sound of the shelling and snipers, blackened forehead does not present a problem in a day of your war-ridden life.

In the case of the war, books were not used as an escapist route. I was fully aware of the evil, which was occurring right before my eyes. Rather, the books were used as a vehicle to keep the mind active in things that are good, things that are ordered. War, by its very nature, is a disordered thing. It may consist of strategic moves but when the civilians are shot and taken into concentration camps, then it becomes an exercise in absurdity. So, in order to fight the absurdity, my mind had to do something else. And that involved what came to me most naturally—reading.

ii)

I believe it was Elie Wiesel who said that books saved his life. After the war, when he was in Paris at Sorbonne, he plunged deeply into learning, mainly to save himself from going insane. When I first heard this, I felt affirmed in my own methods of inquiry and learning. At times, I could have perhaps appeared obsessive over learning and seeking knowledge. And maybe I needed (or need?) to balance my life with more self-reflection. Who knows. I think that when a human being becomes a survivor of an imaginable evil, that same human being by nature becomes wired to seek an answer to the question of evil. One has a tendency to indeed become obsessed with the enigma of evil. And yet one is also given the paradox that evil is not only an “absence of being” (as according to S. Thomas), which means it is a nothing; and at the same time, it truly exists (as opposed to the New Age-ist claims that everything is a matter of energy) and it truly has power over one.

It would seem that once man is touched by evil, he carried that stain with him forever. I would most definitely concur that there is a part of me, which experiences this stain. But the questioning, the seeking of knowledge (usually for me) leads me into the realm of the good and the beautiful. If we are evil, then are we able to correct it? If we have bad habits, then are we able to slowly replace them with good habits? How can a vice become a virtue? How can we retain the significance of human spirit in all our actions? And what indeed, does it mean to be human at all?

Luckily, for me the light has always been lit, even if it was just one flame. It is precisely this one flame, which has led me towards an exploration of questions that elevated human soul, rather placed it in a further state of abjection, or worse—spiritual death. I became interested in learning: I was curious about everything.

In Czech republic, my life had its own duality: a student at Gymnasium and an inhabitant at a refugee camp. The student read the Greek works and marveled at Odysseus’ journey; a refugee lived in darkness: darkness, which involved dealing with the difficulties of camp life and being separated from her father.

In the United States, I was faced with a similar duality. Now, a whole ocean separated me from my country. My father was dead, my country was fading into some crevices of my memory, and I was once again, a displaced person. Disruption, disconnection. And yet, I read. In his letters that I received in the refugee camp, my father urged me to keep doing what I know best—read and learn. It will get me somewhere some day.

Things were extremely difficult but how can I explain this one flame which was lit inside of me? The flame was there by the grace of God. It wasn’t my own doing. I couldn’t have brought that up in me even if I tried, or else I would be God. Some aspects of our lives are best left unexplained by philosophy or theology. Theology (and learning) can only take you so far; as a discipline, I consider theology to be one of the highest. And yet even that has its limitations because it deals with human constructs, which are attempting to explain in the best possible manner, a divine construct. This is a noble pursuit but at some point, the only thing which can enter our being is God’s grace. And that loving act is completely out of our control. There is something beautiful and frightening about that since by nature, we are beings that want to be in control (current times make us schedule task masters) and yet we must realize that at some point, we have to let go or else we will fail. I consider this one of human paradoxes, which reveals one aspect of a relationship of man and God.