Michael sat. His body-language said 'dejected'. He sat at his desk (a chap ought to have a desk) surrounded by, amongst other rubbish, overdue library books.
Michael was a borrower. He was magnetically drawn to libraries, and unable to stop himself borrowing. Not borrowing just anything, but books which -- at very least from their covers -- promised to improve his life. However, Michael's commitment (compulsion?) to improve his life was only exceeded by his inability actually to do it.
He was also attracted by night classes for the same reason. Or, more accurately, attracted by the brochures. He would pour over these from start to finish, imagining himself becoming not so much skilled at a craft but a better person. So plain 'drawing' was out, but 'drawing on the right side of the brain' would be okay. He had no interest in 'bridal accessories' but read about it anyway. He was sufficiently practical to reject 'creative visualisation' but pondered whether he should go to 'understanding time'. But he never did.
The books around him now all had titles that promised everything short of walking on water. 'You are in charge of yourself!' `Your life, your time'.`Career satisfaction.' `Be a winner!' `Relax and be happy.'
The problem with the books is that he knew within minutes of opening most of them that he himself had the ability to write them and probably write them better. It's just that he had never bothered. He needed a book called something like `Ideas for self-help books'. Maybe he should write it?
Michael had in fact sat down once to write a self-help book. It started well but petered out due to a combination of his inexperience at writing and flagging energy. He'd actually got as far as ringing a publisher and asking if they'd be interested in such a book. He didn't get past the receptionist, who advised him to write it and then come and talk. He was slightly miffed but understood when his project ground to a halt. So he went on borrowing other people's books, as flawed as he knew they were.
The fines he had to pay for late books bothered him, but he told himself that the fines were less than it would cost to actually buy the book. That he was prepared to only borrow the book but not buy it did not come into it. A good rationalisation is worth hanging on to.
There were moments when he suspected strongly that the books were not written to impart revelations at all, but rather to prey on people like him who would be drawn to `Relax and grow rich', while the only people who possibly got rich or even relaxed were the author and publisher.
The only books which seemed to get close to being any help actually advised things he could not do. He sometimes felt like one of the guests in the film The Exterminating Angel who for no apparent reason were unable to leave. For no apparent reason there was some advice he couldn't follow. Or maybe it was bad advice. A whole collection of books suggested that the problem was goals; you've got to have goals. Goals? Being rich? That's simply impractical and a bit too vague. Being happy? He didn't know how ... and that's why he was reading the book! Tell me!
The only book he had been unable to find was how to stop compulsively borrowing books from libraries.
© Tim Potter 1991
