(no subject)
To authors, movie directors, tv shows and everyone who has EVER burned a book:
Hello. You may not know me, but I know you. Yes, yes I do. My name is not important. What is important here is for you to know... that I'm a bibliophile. Yes, I'm not hiding. There are no excuses, and I won't tell stories about it. I am what I am. I've always been a bibliophile, ever since I was four and started learning how to read because I needed the words like someone needs medicine.
Oh, yes. I tried to hide it. There was such a time in my life where I thought it was dirty and wrong for me to love books so much. People said so. I shouldn't spend my time with books, they said. I shouldn't mix with their kind. Their words are confusing for a young girl, they said. And I admit this now: I listened to them, because I didn't understand at first. So I hid my love for books. Only in the private space of my room I'd be able to take them out, touch the books and let them touch me.
Oh, how I loved them, and how afraid that my love was wrong. But I love books, even then. The musky scent of an old book with it's white pages yellowed, the crinkly soft sound of books having gotten a little dog eared after someone has read them so much. The comfortable way a favorite book bends its spine and pages to fit your hands. There is such beauty on the pile of books that rest besides ones bed. And eventually, I grew up and I learned that people have no right in telling me who I love or not. I'm a bibliophile! I'll say it loud and clear, and hear me roar!
So I think that, some of you, perhaps, do not realize how it makes me suffer when you write - or WORSE, WORSE, show such a violent scene as a library being destroyed. The terrifying violation that one such as I can feel when there is someone tearing open a book, caring not about the soft pages, the black letters. The excruciating pain of books being burnt, soaked, mudied, cut. I want to think that you can't understand it, because if you did... oh, if you did, you'd know to at least warn for such a scene.
It's an abomination. When one such as I see this, suddenly you're thinking about your books, all the words they have given you. You're thinking about Sinbad, about Nemo, about Alice hiding in a rabbit hole because the fire is spreading. Forests and lakes made of words suddenly are crumbling down. You can't catch your breath. And on the screen the books burn and you can't breath. You can't blink away. You're there, and you can't save those books. You're nothing.
So I have to wonder, what have books done to you? They do not attack. They just sit there, waiting to share their knowledge with you. Sometimes it's faulty, and some books are better than others, that's true, but that doesn't mean that one is better suited to survive than others. No, it just means that they're not meant for you. Books are patient, and books are kind.
In a perfect world, I'd simply say 'STOP WRITING ABOUT BOOKS BEING ABUSED', but it's not a perfect world. So at least, I'd ask...
FUCKING WARN BEFORE DESTROYING A LIBRARY AND DOING CLOSE UPS OF THE BOOKS BEING BURNT, ASSHOLES.
Hello. You may not know me, but I know you. Yes, yes I do. My name is not important. What is important here is for you to know... that I'm a bibliophile. Yes, I'm not hiding. There are no excuses, and I won't tell stories about it. I am what I am. I've always been a bibliophile, ever since I was four and started learning how to read because I needed the words like someone needs medicine.
Oh, yes. I tried to hide it. There was such a time in my life where I thought it was dirty and wrong for me to love books so much. People said so. I shouldn't spend my time with books, they said. I shouldn't mix with their kind. Their words are confusing for a young girl, they said. And I admit this now: I listened to them, because I didn't understand at first. So I hid my love for books. Only in the private space of my room I'd be able to take them out, touch the books and let them touch me.
Oh, how I loved them, and how afraid that my love was wrong. But I love books, even then. The musky scent of an old book with it's white pages yellowed, the crinkly soft sound of books having gotten a little dog eared after someone has read them so much. The comfortable way a favorite book bends its spine and pages to fit your hands. There is such beauty on the pile of books that rest besides ones bed. And eventually, I grew up and I learned that people have no right in telling me who I love or not. I'm a bibliophile! I'll say it loud and clear, and hear me roar!
So I think that, some of you, perhaps, do not realize how it makes me suffer when you write - or WORSE, WORSE, show such a violent scene as a library being destroyed. The terrifying violation that one such as I can feel when there is someone tearing open a book, caring not about the soft pages, the black letters. The excruciating pain of books being burnt, soaked, mudied, cut. I want to think that you can't understand it, because if you did... oh, if you did, you'd know to at least warn for such a scene.
It's an abomination. When one such as I see this, suddenly you're thinking about your books, all the words they have given you. You're thinking about Sinbad, about Nemo, about Alice hiding in a rabbit hole because the fire is spreading. Forests and lakes made of words suddenly are crumbling down. You can't catch your breath. And on the screen the books burn and you can't breath. You can't blink away. You're there, and you can't save those books. You're nothing.
So I have to wonder, what have books done to you? They do not attack. They just sit there, waiting to share their knowledge with you. Sometimes it's faulty, and some books are better than others, that's true, but that doesn't mean that one is better suited to survive than others. No, it just means that they're not meant for you. Books are patient, and books are kind.
In a perfect world, I'd simply say 'STOP WRITING ABOUT BOOKS BEING ABUSED', but it's not a perfect world. So at least, I'd ask...
FUCKING WARN BEFORE DESTROYING A LIBRARY AND DOING CLOSE UPS OF THE BOOKS BEING BURNT, ASSHOLES.