A self-introduction through an object

Having to choose one object that somehow symbolizes my identity, I did a great deal of thinking about the significance of all those little things I can’t do without and about the meaning of that elusive concept- “Identity”. I’ve come to two conclusions: a. there is no one object that defines me well enough and b. there is no clear-cut definition of me. Not that I am special that way. I believe a person, any person, is one of the toughest things to define (if at all possible) and that any such definition would cast aside some aspects of one’s identity, even certain aspects that are crucial for one’s sense of self identity.

Twisting my own arm, I can come up with one object that bears a unique significance for me; through its significance I might be able to actually make some sort of proper introduction of myself. It’s a book by Albert Camus called Le Premier Homme (loosely translated- my copy is a translation to Hebrew of it- The First Man). It’s his last novel, or, you might say- his final novel. They found what seemed to be the first draft of this book in the wreckage of the car he died in. His kids published it some thirty-four years after his death. It’s an interesting piece to read since it is still in the rough: Camus hasn’t yet decided on the names for all of his characters and that is why some of those carry different names throughout of the book; some of the plotlines do not coincide entirely; it was published with his hand written remarks of what to change and what to add. All in all- a diamond in the rough.

It was given to me by a friend of mine for my eighteenth birthday. The reason was that the novel speaks of a man in search of his past and in order to find his present and a path to his future. At that point in my life I had just embarked on a similar quest, one that I have yet to complete. To some extent I hope I never do. You know, books are my favorite present. Whenever I get one (instead of wasting lots of money I don’t really have on ones I will probably not read anytime soon) I take great comfort in the notion that I have yet another book to display in my library and someone who knows me well enough to know what to buy me.

To sum all this up: I consider myself to be an admirer of the written word, but not exactly a bookworm. I’m also a person who accumulates books and design his library to be a projection of himself: meaningful moments in my life and significant aspects of myself transfigure into these chaotic shelves I have yet to put in order. To some extent I hope I never do. And finally, I’m someone who appreciates true friends, the ones that really know you; I cherish what was given to me by them.