Reaction to Reading

Obsession with something, or with the idea of something, is what "The Book of Sand" by Jorge Borges is about. The man who buys the infinite book becomes haunted with the idea that something can exist with no beginning and no end. In order to put his mind at ease; to quiet the constant thoughts that run through his brain when he tries to sleep, he must pass the book on, much as it was originally passed to him.

Because he was unable to grasp the idea of the book, and therefore allow the book to exist, he was unable to rest while the book was in his possession. In our world today, that is so technology driven, and full of certainty, the thought that something can exist without having a "starting point" is mind-boggling.

Even as the man is examining the book for the first time, he feels the need to place it in a time-frame, "Nineteenth century, I'd say'" to which the "melancholy" previous owner replies "I don't know...Never did know.'" (Borges: 3, 9-10) The man to whom the book is about to be sold has no idea what he has gotten himself into, much like when on a first date.

It is the need for comfort and security that causes me to label the person as either "nice," "not my type" or "really my type." To attempt to label someone (or something) so quickly, without further investigation, sets up imminent disaster, and disappointment. Rhyme and reason are elements of life that are taken for granted, and assumed to be present. By the book being numbered in an unconventional method, it becomes clear that the text is anything but conventional.

The quest for a "method to the madness"; the answer to the question "why" is what snatches the man up, and holds him tightly in its grip. Just as when I might have been working on a math problem, or a chemical formula - there is a right answer to the equation, just as there is a right way for the formula to be balanced.

Otherwise, why would a Professor present the problem, or why would the problem even exist? With the book, the man figures there has to be an explanation to the mis-numbering, and it is his mission to discover it. But like the difficult problems in science and mathematics, the more a problem is contemplated and worked out, the more impossible it seems to become.

In fact, the stranger with the book tries to explain his theory regarding the strangely numbered pages, pointing out that perhaps the reason "they're numbered in this arbitrary way...it's to give one to understand that the terms of an infinite series can be numbered any way whatever.'" (Borges: 25) In that sense, perhaps the impossible problems I have been faced with were merely trick questions, with no right answer, given as an assignment to prove a point. Or maybe not.

The most disturbing portion of the story is near the end, when the man is so overcome with the book and with the idea of the book that his entire life is shut down by its presence in his home. His sleep is haunted with dreams of the book - when he can sleep, that is. He cannot bear to share the book with anyone; for fear that the book will no longer hold its magical esteem once others know about it.

As if suddenly the book will no longer be infinite, and he will lose what has become the focus of his life. Those desperate emotions are like the crippling effect that a forbidden love affair can have - as if the passion I feel will no longer exist if someone knows about the affair. As if the love I feel for the other person will cease once the love has been shared with the world. As if the love I feel will be taken from me by its rightful owner.

It is impossible for me to remain in contact with the few friends that I might have had because they most likely will be able to discover my secret, which again puts it in danger. This story is powerful, and beyond thought provoking.

The sheer will that it took for this man to hide the book among other books in the library - then to have to avoid walking past the library for fear that the book's allure would in fact grip him again - its rather amazing that the man had the strength. In comparison, the previous owner had had to do the same thing - get rid of the book to a stranger - in the hopes of achieving some sort of peace in their lives, some sense of normalcy.

Really, it is not the book that is to fault for the crazed obsession it garners. Similarly, when I take love or lust and cross the line into obsession, the object of my affection is not to blame for the disruption of my normal life, my previously happy existence. I am.