The Purity of It

You might wonder at the books on my coffee table right now. I do. There are three David Sedaris books, one copy of The Upanishads, Khalil Gibran’s, The Prophet, two compilations of Annie Dillard’s words, a New Yorker magazine, a collection of George Booth cartoons, several Canadian road maps, and two compilations of Rumi poems. To be clear, I am not telling you this to seem precious. Believe me, this is the last adjective I could own. I have read all of these books as part of my desperate search for a way in to my own humanity; access to the divine, if that works for you; something that makes some damn sense, if it doesn’t. 

 Rumi was the last author on the table whose work I read. I did so while traveling through eastern Canada, and expected to find myself overwhelmed with the beauty of his words, as I was by the breathtaking landscapes I was passing. I had noted the poems of this 13th century mystic for years–seen them posted on social media, or referred to, in various literary works–and there is no question in my mind that his work is important, profound. There is nobody that I know who can describe the intangible light of God as it manifests as love and compassion in us–you’re a fool not to read him, but what the hell? Why was I not feeling that Rumi spark? This may sound arrogant, but perhaps it’s because I already get it. I get it, and have gotten it since the death of my father, the end of my marriage, and certainly lately, in what seems to me to be the very unravelling of civilization.




You can be pissed at me here. I’m a filthy cheater because the book that finally moved me–that offered the words that made me weep–was not on my coffee table, so there was no way for you to have figured it out. It was the first three pages of J. D. Salinger’s, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, that slayed me in a moment, back home in my apartment. I was going to copy sections of the pages here, in an effort to help you understand my sentiment, but realized that there is no way for you to mimic my experience. There is everything different about us, you and I, up to the moment when I was so moved by Salinger. To expect you to be moved to the same extent is a trap that I have learned to avoid, but the basic thread–the admiration and love for another, well, that’s inside all of us, isn’t it?   

Basically, to encapsulate, Salinger begins his novel through the words of his narrator, Buddy Glass. Buddy is the younger brother of Seymour, and second-oldest in the family of seven kids.  Buddy describes Seymour, the focus of the story, as the most remarkable, thoughtful human; sincere, present, and with an almost Taoist ability to see through to the essence of a soul. It is clear that Buddy dearly loves, and misses Seymour who he tells us was deceased in fictional reality, seven years before the telling of this tale. It was the depth of this, the purity of it, that took me down.  In all of the people I have met over the decades, in all of the experiences I have had, I have not yet met this person–my Seymour, in whatever form that takes.  In my fatigue, and in my frustration over this–because it’s not as if I am hiding in a bunker–I feel that time is running out. I feel so utterly empty and fragile, that I risk cracking apart. 



I’m thankful for all of my books. Between reading, film, therapy, and now, travel, I have been able to scrabble together just enough grit necessary to maintain some form of footing and momentum forward. I absolutely understand the soul’s need for love and sincere connection. It is the rest of this game playing that I find exhausting. I don’t get it, and can’t seem to bear participating in it.  This leaves me as an outsider, an observer, which is fine, except for the cracking part.  I carry the Salinger book with me. There is something about having his characters close that makes me feel less lonely–as if I am fooling myself into believing the existence and vitality of the divine within me. Whatever it takes, I guess.

                                ~The Essential George Booth