Critique of Pure Reason

It was a little before seven o’clock in the evening when Dana left the university. She was tired and hungry but she could not resist the temptation to stop by the used bookstore. Every visit to this store was a little adventure into the lives of those who previously owned the books. Highlighted paragraphs, notes on the margins, postcards forgotten between the pages, coffee rings on the covers, and scraps of paper filled in hard to decipher handwriting spoke volumes to Dana’s imagination.

She entered the store with a tingle of anticipation that yet another little treasure was waiting for her. Dana went about in her usual way: “poetry”, “out of print”, “antiques”, “art”, “philosophy”... Nothing was particularly interesting and Dana was about to succumb to exhaustion and leave when a book missing the back part of its cover caught her attention. The book was absolutely marvelous: the rich dark leather of the remaining binding exuded calm self-confidence; the uneven edges of the hand-cut pages were mysteriously inviting; and the general shape of the book was pleasing to the touch. Dana paused to enjoy the first impression before opening the title page that read: “CRITIQUE OF PURE REASON by IMMANUEL KANT”. She already owned two modern translations of the Critique but it did not matter. This book felt right. Dana simply did not want to leave it for fear that somebody might buy it. There also was a grimmer possibility in this book’s future. Dana already witnessed several small bonfires at the back of the store where unwanted books perished along with dry maple leaves…

Dana paid and went home. There, she took a closer look at her find and made a stunning discovery. Dark spots on the cover, which she originally took for the signs of wear, were actually burns. The book survived a fire. Somebody cared enough for the thoughts of the lonely strange man to risk life for them.  Dana felt connected to the one who saved this book. There are books that are persons. You cannot just leave them. They demand respect. No FAHRENHEIT 451: neither in 1899 nor in 2009.


a shallow puddle
an upside down cicada
tugs at the heart