Book Fair

Book Stalls

Busy with Books

The book fair at Bajo Higher Secondary School's ground commenced on 10th April and ended on 14th April. There were about 35 bookstalls. The fair was organized by the KMT Printer and Publishing House for schools in western Bhutan, covering dzongkhags such as Thimphu, Punakha, Paro, Chukha, Samtse, Sarpang, Zhemgang, Wangdue Phodrang, and others. Hundreds of school principals, teachers, and library assistants came to purchase books for their school libraries.

There were many contemporary books that looked beautiful on the outside. The books also came in various formats, including illustrations, graphic designs, comics, and more. Almost all classic books were abridged, shortened, or summarized. I loved the variety of books available. There were books on professional development (like those by Robin Sharma), skills development, literature, sports, science and technology, sex education, and so on.

There were also books from Bhutan. Many books authored by Bhutanese sold like hotcakes, even though they were pricey. However, there was one Bhutanese author who stood advertising his thin book to customers. He looked so desperate; he begged anyone to buy his books. This highlights a problem in Bhutan: after working hard and going through the complicated publication process, an author's work is wasted—utterly wasted—leaving the author poorer, peevish, meaningless, and insignificant. Our readers must support these authors.

Our school buys books every year. This year too, the school bought books worth about two lakh and fourteen thousand rupees. Our school library was in charge, and I went to purchase the books. We bought from eight bookstalls, dividing our budget equally among them. I feel this book fair is a good opportunity for book enterprises and shops to make money.

The book fair is conducted every year. It is usually organized in Mongar for the eastern dzongkhags and in Bajo for the western dzongkhags. Many people were talking about changing the venue and the frequent need for such book fairs. It is true that to promote reading habits, to spread knowledge, and to build a knowledge-based society, there is a need to promote these fairs frequently and in different places.

Rights to Write

In ancient times, writers were revered as great creators, philosophers, and the very constitution of society. Figures like Aristotle, Plato, and Homer weren't merely celebrated—they were glorified. People kissed their feet. Probably. They shaped civilizations through the power of the written word. Also through slavery and questionable hygiene, but let's focus on the writing.

For a long time, art and literary works were regarded as unique creations of singular genius. People actually took literature seriously. Imagine that. Writers like Shakespeare, Milton, Hardy, Wordsworth, Keats, Dickens, and the Brontë sisters embedded deep meaning into their dramas, novels, and poetry. Their works dominated society and guided moral and intellectual life. People argued about Hamlet's sanity, not about who had more facrbook followers.

But we now live in a different era—the postmodern age. Also known as the "look-at-me" age. Today, every Tom, Dick, and Harry—or every Sonam, Tashi, and Pema—calls themselves a writer. You farted into a notes app? Congratulations, you're an author. With the rise of computers, mass media, and rapid technological advancement, television and digital screens have come to dominate society like a rash on a baby's bottom. People no longer believe that a work of art or literature carries a single, fixed meaning. Instead, they prefer to derive their own subjective interpretations. It is an age where everybody writes, but nobody truly reads.

Interactive media and the internet have democratized knowledge—yes—but also diluted it. Like cheap whiskey. Copying and preserving art through digital means has made the artist less of an authority and more of a ghost. A fart in the wind. The easier it becomes to share, the harder it becomes to be valued.

The reading habit is dying, suffocated by modern amenities. Smothered by movies, strangled by Facebook , choked by YouTube shorts. It seems there is no future for the writer. Our youth are carried away by the mouse, robotics, trends, phoning phones, dinky-hinky and kinky-pinky lives, nets and notifications—anything but an "inky-bingo" life of pen and paper. They'd rather watch a cat fall off a table than read a single page of Tolstoy. Meanwhile, adults are occupied with minting monies, gambling and wagering, whoring for pourboire (that's tips or bribes, for the uninitiated). Everyone's busy bending over for a quick buck. In such an environment, where is the scope for a writer to be appreciated? Nowhere. Not even in the toilet.

I wish—and I say this selflessly, though my ego is screaming—that many writers would write, many promoters would promote, and many readers would read. I wish for the world to be conquered by words once again. I wish for people to put down their phones and pick up a good book. But the painful truth is that readers have now conquered words. Words no longer carry meaning for them. Words are just sounds. And if words lose their meaning, then writers, inevitably, have a bleak future. A future of shouting into the void while the void scrolls past. A future of writing beautiful sentences that nobody will finish. A future of being that sad uncle in the corner with a pen and no audience.

So here we are. Writing. For ourselves. For the ghost of Homer. And maybe—just maybe—for one or two souls who still read past the first paragraph.

The Death of the Writer and the Death of the Reader