It’s shocking to find books in the trash. Many people who live here have an avowed passion for reading. It might be due to Seattle’s population that has on average a higher level of education, or it could be due to the city’s appetite for withstanding copious amounts of coffee and rain. Even our homeless are well read. Piles of books are heaped in makeshift tent cities. I once knew a homeless schizophrenic man named John, who used to ask me to bring him used books. He preferred mysteries and historical fiction, especially westerns.
In a city where people are passionate about reading, there is a collective cultural horror at the very idea that someone would toss a book into the trash. We are imbued with a moral obligation to always find a way to pass on an unwanted book to anyone who might give it a quick read and a home. The perpetrator caught dumping a book into the trash would be more than censured. An offending book perpetrator would be given the Seattle freeze—the clod would be permanently shunned and forced to remove all traces of his Bernie Sanders’ bumper sticker from the rear bumper of his smart car.
I could not forget the sight of the books in the trash bin, looking like victims of attempted murder. I needed to understand why the perpetrator tried to kill them. I began to imagine all sorts of crazy things. It didn’t make sense that someone would throw away books. I reasoned that the book perpetrator hated the owner of the books, not the books. The crime was personal. What had begun as a lovers’ quarrel grew into many sleepless nights. One fight led to another. Then came full-blown rage, guilt, bated breath, and suffering. There is no better way to break up with someone than to throw away his books.
The Truth about History
Soon after I found the books in the trash, I experienced an unpleasant lesson about history. My massage therapist lives in the tiny town of Wheeler in Oregon, (population 310). While she had me spread-eagled on the table, I put myself through grave introspection, drilling down into the tiny needling part of myself that makes me feel compelled to read history. Understanding history gives me neither money nor academic credit. Loving history doesn’t even get me respect. No one cares if I know the French Revolution officially began in 1789, or whether Marie Antionette said, “Let them eat cake.” (She didn’t.)
In the mirror of my soul, I looked at myself in the silvery place where I cannot lie. Eye-to-eye, I shrugged. “Come on, admit it,” I thought, “You’re a snob. You’ve always been arrogant. Knowing history makes you feel superior.” I nodded my head to affirm the truth. All of those things were true, but truth is never simple or easy. Dorothy mistook my head movement for a need to adjust the face cradle, and whispered in my ear, “We’re returning to the way things used to be.” Then she narrated a sequence of historical events so improbable that I immediately detected alt-right extremism. “Oh no, here it comes,” I thought to myself.