Back in Easter I attended a conference in which the speaker cited some quotes from books his father had wrote. The ideas resonated with me, so I looked for the books. After a few days, I realised they were nowhere to be found. All that effort, those ideas, those thoughts… erased by a soft wave of time. Just one generation and they were gone… Except that they were present on that day, in that conference.
So many books have disappeared. And not just in the big fire of Alexandria, but everyday in the cleaning of some attic or basement, or just making space for new books. Silent companions that one day are no longer needed or wanted. There is a sadness in throwing away a book, as if it were endowed with a spirit that could not be explained by a mere collection of pages. A small piece of the life of the author, and the life of the reader.
One wonders why we are compelled to write. Why do we feel the need to share those ideas, to let them out. Not so much because they are new, everything has been said several times. We share them because we must. Those ideas came to us, and we received them. Now our obligation is to pass them on.
Is that not our purpose, to be the present as the necessary link between the past and the future? To tender the sacred fire, to keep it alive and pass it on to the next generation, the future us?
The Introverted Tree 