the last book
Driving home from work one day about a year and a half ago, my mind was doing the random wandering/musing it often does during the commute. I don't recall what lead to it--probably I was reflecting on whatever book I was reading at the time--but all at once I was struck by the fact that one day I will read the last book I will ever read in my life. For whatever reason, this thought froze me in my tracks (though at least I thankfully did not slam on the brakes or any other dramatic, traffic disaster-courting action.) Since that afternoon, this thought has stayed with me. It seems, somehow, to connect more strongly to the idea of mortality than any other thoughts I've had on the subject (of which, like most humans, there have been many.) There is nothing abstract about it; it is a visceral feeling.
See, it's not just "What will the last book be?" and "Will I be sad when I read it?" The thought that really haunts me is--what if you don't know? Reading books has been a love of my life. Yet someday I will pass on. It could be suddenly, and I'll never know, while reading, that last book really was the last. Of course, it could be a long slow gradual decline, and maybe I will have an inkling that my reading time is coming to a close. Maybe my grandchildren or great grandchildren will read to me and the last book I read will be different from the last book I hear and feel. But regardless of how it happens, there will be a last. There is a last everything. I will spend a lifetime gathering knowledge, reading for pleasure and education and transcendence, at then it will be gone, as everything else is gone.
Which would I prefer: that I know it's the last time I'm reading a book, or that I'm clueless about the fact? I really don't know; it doesn't seem to make any sense to dwell on it since the matter will be out of my hands. I don't spend time envisioning what kind of death I want, and this train of thought leads dangerously close to such musings. Such matters are rarely in our control. There is a sadness in this idea of the last book, though, a tremendous sadness. That an action that you love so much will no longer be possible. Not necessarily because of death, perhaps because your eyesight simply fails or your hands shake too much or your brain begins to work in a different way due to dementia or what have you. Of course, reading will not be the only last time. *Everything* has a last time. What about the last time you make love? Will you know? Will you wish you had done so more? Regret the times when it was just easier to roll over and go to sleep? That one is simply too much for me to even turn over in my mind.
Many folks have religious beliefs that help them cope with this inevitability. Not being of a religious nature and being strongly inclined towards an atheistic mindset, I tend to think that when it's over, it's over. I might become stardust, but my consciousness is long gone. As Lee Ranaldo once sang, "Emotions, books, outlooks on life." Stardust might be the building block of the universe but it is dust nonetheless. One day I will read my last book. One day I will make love for the final time. One day I will hear Metallica's Ride the Lightning for the last time. One day I will drink my final beer, and perhaps a different day I will drink my last cup of coffee.
Though such thoughts sometimes overwhelm me with sadness (and I won't lie--some fear as well; it is the great unknown, after all, and we all fear the unknown), they also remind me to live each day to its fullest. To love and to enjoy the amazing things this my physical body can do, and my consciousness can learn. It is not the destination, it is the journey, and the journey is a beautiful, amazing gift.
See, it's not just "What will the last book be?" and "Will I be sad when I read it?" The thought that really haunts me is--what if you don't know? Reading books has been a love of my life. Yet someday I will pass on. It could be suddenly, and I'll never know, while reading, that last book really was the last. Of course, it could be a long slow gradual decline, and maybe I will have an inkling that my reading time is coming to a close. Maybe my grandchildren or great grandchildren will read to me and the last book I read will be different from the last book I hear and feel. But regardless of how it happens, there will be a last. There is a last everything. I will spend a lifetime gathering knowledge, reading for pleasure and education and transcendence, at then it will be gone, as everything else is gone.
Which would I prefer: that I know it's the last time I'm reading a book, or that I'm clueless about the fact? I really don't know; it doesn't seem to make any sense to dwell on it since the matter will be out of my hands. I don't spend time envisioning what kind of death I want, and this train of thought leads dangerously close to such musings. Such matters are rarely in our control. There is a sadness in this idea of the last book, though, a tremendous sadness. That an action that you love so much will no longer be possible. Not necessarily because of death, perhaps because your eyesight simply fails or your hands shake too much or your brain begins to work in a different way due to dementia or what have you. Of course, reading will not be the only last time. *Everything* has a last time. What about the last time you make love? Will you know? Will you wish you had done so more? Regret the times when it was just easier to roll over and go to sleep? That one is simply too much for me to even turn over in my mind.
Many folks have religious beliefs that help them cope with this inevitability. Not being of a religious nature and being strongly inclined towards an atheistic mindset, I tend to think that when it's over, it's over. I might become stardust, but my consciousness is long gone. As Lee Ranaldo once sang, "Emotions, books, outlooks on life." Stardust might be the building block of the universe but it is dust nonetheless. One day I will read my last book. One day I will make love for the final time. One day I will hear Metallica's Ride the Lightning for the last time. One day I will drink my final beer, and perhaps a different day I will drink my last cup of coffee.
Though such thoughts sometimes overwhelm me with sadness (and I won't lie--some fear as well; it is the great unknown, after all, and we all fear the unknown), they also remind me to live each day to its fullest. To love and to enjoy the amazing things this my physical body can do, and my consciousness can learn. It is not the destination, it is the journey, and the journey is a beautiful, amazing gift.