A parable
Once upon a time, there was a middle-class white girl who was walking down a busy, commercialized street in her city. She passed a bench, and happened to notice a copy of Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist sitting upon it, apparently forgotten or abandoned. She had not read it before, but, having an interesting and generally fruitful history with orphaned books(1), decided to take it home with her.
Being a middle-class white girl, however, she was quickly distracted by the lure of a local caffeine-dispensing unit, and decided to settle there for some hours. She selected an armchair, studied a few texts for school purposes, consumed multiple ounces of chai tea, and only once satisfied in these endeavors decided to peruse her newly-adopted book.
She gave the book a fair trial of forty pages, and then closed it. Gavel(2) in hand, she pronounced it guilty on multiple counts of Sentimental Bullshit and General Lack of Literary Quality. She returned it to her bag and wondered how she would best deal with it. Adding it to her bookshelf was out of the question; burning it would be a violation of the Sacred Right of All Books; selling it to a used book store was a definite potential, if not likely to be especially profitable(3).
It occurred to her that she might consider being rid of it in the selfsame manner in which she found it: leaving it on a public bench somewhere for another person to find. Many people, she understood, found this book to be inspirational and fulfilling. It was possible that its consequent owner might enjoy it, feel good, decide to become a better person, etc., upon reading it. The girl's own cold, Nabokovian reaction to it was probably a minority opinion; and though deep down in her cold, Nabokovian soul she knew that her opinion was the correct one, she also understood that there might be some greater utility to be gained from abandoning the book to be found by a reader who could form positive, if false, impressions of it.
The middle-class white girl, in the noble tradition of the truly open-minded, is still confused and undecided(4).
(1) See Englehardt, 2006-2007 [unpublished]. Determined scholars may be forced to break into the author's apartment to view these texts, plus have the necessary decoder on hand, part of which is available http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/1a/IndianaJonesDecoder_wb.jpg/200px-IndianaJonesDecoder_wb.jpg
(2) Ceramic mug; makes a satisfying "thunk".
(3) She most likely noticed the number $6.50 written in pencil on the inside cover, though the original jacket price was $13.00. Once marred by the touch of human hands, The Alchemist's worth appears to decrease by half.
(4) She has, however, recently started seriously considering the possibility of pursuing a Creative Writing major. You should ask her about that.
Being a middle-class white girl, however, she was quickly distracted by the lure of a local caffeine-dispensing unit, and decided to settle there for some hours. She selected an armchair, studied a few texts for school purposes, consumed multiple ounces of chai tea, and only once satisfied in these endeavors decided to peruse her newly-adopted book.
She gave the book a fair trial of forty pages, and then closed it. Gavel(2) in hand, she pronounced it guilty on multiple counts of Sentimental Bullshit and General Lack of Literary Quality. She returned it to her bag and wondered how she would best deal with it. Adding it to her bookshelf was out of the question; burning it would be a violation of the Sacred Right of All Books; selling it to a used book store was a definite potential, if not likely to be especially profitable(3).
It occurred to her that she might consider being rid of it in the selfsame manner in which she found it: leaving it on a public bench somewhere for another person to find. Many people, she understood, found this book to be inspirational and fulfilling. It was possible that its consequent owner might enjoy it, feel good, decide to become a better person, etc., upon reading it. The girl's own cold, Nabokovian reaction to it was probably a minority opinion; and though deep down in her cold, Nabokovian soul she knew that her opinion was the correct one, she also understood that there might be some greater utility to be gained from abandoning the book to be found by a reader who could form positive, if false, impressions of it.
The middle-class white girl, in the noble tradition of the truly open-minded, is still confused and undecided(4).
(1) See Englehardt, 2006-2007 [unpublished]. Determined scholars may be forced to break into the author's apartment to view these texts, plus have the necessary decoder on hand, part of which is available http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/1a/IndianaJonesDecoder_wb.jpg/200px-IndianaJonesDecoder_wb.jpg
(2) Ceramic mug; makes a satisfying "thunk".
(3) She most likely noticed the number $6.50 written in pencil on the inside cover, though the original jacket price was $13.00. Once marred by the touch of human hands, The Alchemist's worth appears to decrease by half.
(4) She has, however, recently started seriously considering the possibility of pursuing a Creative Writing major. You should ask her about that.