Happy birthday, buddy

My dear Billy, Kindly accept my belated birthday wishes. On the 23rd April, in the blessed year 1564 at Stratford-upon-Avon, did you breathe first. And, by a mysterious turn of destiny, on this very day again in 1616, you breathed last. As in the case of your Cassius in “Julius Caesar”, “Time is come round, And where I did begin, there shall I end: My life is run his compass.” So fair and foul a day doesn’t come very often, does it? However, as far as I am concerned, I am more prone to wishing you many happy returns of the day, whatever that means. You are among the few blessed souls who keep living long after their deaths and “bestride the narrow world like a Colossus”. You have already lived for over 450 years. May you keep on living till eternity. And I can assure you that you have absolutely no choice as to this eventuality. Even if you wish to die, people won’t allow you to. On the other hand, you must surely know that there have been several attempts against your life, but you have survived them all. And the instructions given to murder you have all been foiled. Even after your death, some wicked tongues have been pretending that you never wrote a single line in your life. Such people no doubt prefer Bacon (and eggs) for breakfast. And today, wherever you are, you must know that they have proclaimed a so-called “World Book Day” to coincide with your anniversaries. This in an alleged bid to sensitise people to read, as it is felt that people don’t read enough. But, by God, why should people read at all? What blockheads are those wise persons who think it necessary that a child should read! At most, reading should be inflicted as a punishment upon refractory kids, in much the same way as our teachers used to give us lines to copy 100 times. “I must not talk in class”, “I must not come late to school”, or still, 500 times “I must do my homework.” Today this could be changed into reading a number of pages from books, depending upon the gravity of the offence, my dear Billy. I don’t know where they got this strange, ridiculous notion that reading provides knowledge, or it helps to build character, or such nonsense that it gives pleasure. On the contrary, the love of reading only enables a person to exchange the pleasures and delights of life for boredom, monotony and weariness. Indeed, what pleasure or other benefits can one derive from reading? The one million-or-so Mauritians who don’t read cannot all be wrong, can they? And why should I sit down and read while those in my neighbourhood are enjoying themselves in the bars, discos, and other such delightful places? Why should I waste my money buying books when I can spend it so much more usefully on alcohol, cigarettes and other delightful pursuits? Moreover, as Milton not so blindly wrote, some people may be “deep versed in books, but shallow in themselves.” Reading, my dear Billy, is a sheer waste of time and money. I suspect it’s been invented by the Devil in order to trap God. And writers are nothing but the agents of Satan who uses them to corrupt innocent minds. We must not forget the episode of the Garden of Eden from where the first human beings were chased simply because they had become intelligent after eating the fruit of knowledge offered to them by the eternal Devil. The story is merely repeating itself like history. Only, instead of fruits, Satan is now sending writers and books. We must gratefully acknowledge and appreciate the efforts of our supreme authorities in their endeavour to frustrate the efforts of Satan, my dear Billy. We must indeed congratulate them for even if they have equipped each secondary school with a library, they have refused to provide the means to equip them. In the same vein, some institutions of higher learning in Mauritius deserve our highest regards and considerations. If books by Mauritian authors are not exactly banned from some of these, at least they are not allowed to leave the premises, but are closely guarded and permitted to climb down the shelves on very special conditions and to be consulted within the four walls of the library. Reading never improves anybody, my dear Billy. If anything, it dulls the brain and makes the reader appear more silly. If ignorance is indeed bliss, why bother to tamper with this state of beatitude by the unnecessary perusal of books? Had I read as much as others, I would sure have remained as ignorant as they. And if you ever encounter a man of rare intellect, rest assured that he seldom or never reads. And I am saying this in full connaissance de cause and expect no cover-up as in other instances. I really pity our writers who have the temerity to believe that people have either the time or the inclination to read whatever they write. Don’t you, my dear Billy?