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Literature Review — Only the Lover Sings: Art and Contemplation by Josef Pieper
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I am the sort of man who likes his book in one of two conditions, either crisp and new as the dawn or as battered, old and smelling of must as the forgotten chests and other antique relics which crowd the attics of our grandparents homes. The middle ground between these two is unbearable to me, there is nothing in me that appreciates a dog-eared page, a scribbled note, or a scuffed cover warped from old coffee spills and yet my copy of Josef Pieper’s Only the Lover Sings is in just that sort of condition.
I suppose it has been unavoidable; I have read, re-read and loaned out this book to others with such frequency that it is not surprising that this, of all my books, would be the most scruffy piece of literature I proudly own. At first I fumed and locked the book away in the vain hopes that darkness and the company of better cared-for tomes would coax it back into a pristine condition through some sort of benevolent osmosis but I am unable to keep this book on my shelf; it seems perpetually to be napping in my satchel or traveling abroad through my friends hands so I have learned to love its continually degrading state. I have kept this book mobile throughout the past years of my life because, like few other books I have ever read, it expresses — with remarkable brevity — a conceptual basis of living which deeply supports the value of celebration and creativity. Read the rest of this entry »