Old People and Big Books

In America we often sweep our parents off to the side and out of the way, lest they slow us down. It seems that we forget that old people have lived life and know a thing or two. We forget that they have already climbed life’s tallest mountains and explored life’s deepest and darkest caves.

In America we like aphoristic books with pretty covers, though they don’t say much of anything. They merely give us equivocal anthems to post on our bathroom mirror or on our status update. There’s no substantial content, just a wisp of ephemeral air tantamount to a fart.

Old people and big books are alike in some ways. They are like treasure chests frequently teeming with wit and wisdom. Unfortunately for us, we in America seem to dislike old people and big books. We prefer young people with enthusiasm, and we prefer thin books with clever titles. Neither young people nor thin books generally have much wisdom to offer.

Old people belong in the mainstream of culture, and big books should be the thrones on which they sit. They should be our philosopher kings, but alas we prefer anarchy as long as the anarchy is shiny, bright, and young.

Of course, I’m being a bit facetious. But this past Sunday after church I had lunch with several older gentlemen from church, and it was fascinating and amusing to hear them talk about all sorts of things not least among their stories were their misadventures in China. Listening to them talk made me think it odd that we younger people don’t do more listening.

In a culture infatuated with prolonging youth, we shouldn’t forget that older folks have stories to tell, and we younger folks may do well to sit and listen.