Following the Footnotes

A Meditation on the Books we Keep and the Questions they Ask of Us

It is an incredible fact of posting on social media—especially when you post quotes from books—that someone will inevitably message you and ask for a list of books you recommend.

Over the fourteen years that I have been online, I have probably quoted from well over a hundred books and articles, if not more. My personal library holds close to three thousand physical books, not to mention an untold number of audiobooks and e-books. I’ve always been an indiscriminate, messy reader—hopping from one area to another, following some inner thread of curiosity with no rhyme or reason. I cannot always say what drives me, except that I once came across a line attributed to Joseph Campbell: “I follow the footnotes.” That resonates with me. I too follow the footnotes—examining each one, chasing the next book or idea as though somewhere, hidden among those pages, there is an answer to a question that is not fully formed in my mind. I am seeking but I do not know what I am seeking. It is the process that matters, and this reminds me of another thing Joseph Campbell once wrote: “My religion consists in underlining sentences.” Joseph Campbell and I bow to the same god it seems.

I should also confess that I hate lists. I dislike those “10 Books You Must Read” or “5 Steps to Understand X” posts that flood our feeds. They seek to reduce the richness of human experience to a sequence of prescriptions and I will have none of it. I would far rather orient people according to a need or a question they are living. This, in essence, is what bibliotherapy once meant—a term I first encountered when reading about a London bookshop that organized its shelves not by genre, but by the kind of life issue or longing the reader was hoping to address.

But even that can be difficult, because I myself read across so many areas—depth psychology, mythology, the symbolic and spiritual realms, archeoastronomy, history, literature. I think literature, in particular, offers us as much in the way of guidance and consolation as any book of advice ever could. My reading habits are far from disciplined, and my shelves reflect that. Some are chaotic, others are arranged according to something I once knew and have since forgotten. By many measurements, they are a mess.

One section, though, I have kept relatively intact—my collection of books published by Jungian analysts through Inner City Books. I began collecting them over twenty years ago, and they have been foundational for me. I have nearly ninety titles here—though others are scattered elsewhere. Among them are the early works of James Hollis, who this publisher supported before anyone else did and also titles by Marie-Louise von Franz, Marion Woodman, Sylvia Brinton Perera, Edward Edinger and more. That shelf is a gold mine, and I pull a book out from time to time, seeking for something that might have escaped a first and second reading.

Elsewhere, I have shelves devoted to Wagner and his operas—my ongoing fascination with how artists tap into the unconscious, sparked further by hearing M. Owen Lee speak at the Wagner Society years ago. And of course, history and literature—subjects I studied in university, and which continue to shape my life. Just the other week, I picked up a book questioning whether the Cathars were truly the mass movement they were reported to be, or a clever invention of the French tourist board. I find such questions endlessly fascinating.

Ultimately, my collection aligns with what Umberto Eco once observed—a library is not an archive of what we have read, but a testament to desire—to what we hope to learn, the paths we hope to follow.

Sometimes I think of reorganizing the collection. Some of it already is. There is a history section, a literature section, literary criticism, Spanish-language books. But mostly, the shelves are a bit disorganized—Lee Smolin’s The Trouble with Physics sitting next to Edward Hirsch’s The Demon and the Angel. The first asks us to consider the way the universe is interconnected, the second examines the roots of artistic inspiration through the work of the likes of William Blake and Federico García Lorca. Perhaps they are sitting next to each other because something connects them as well.

So, can I recommend a list? No, not exactly. But I can recommend books to address specific questions. If you are wrestling with relationship issues, read James Hollis, Robert A. Johnson, or Irvin Yalom. If you are grappling with the shadow, Connie Zweig’s collection on the shadow is wonderful, as is Robert Bly. If your soul needs filling read Dostoevsky, read Gabriel García Márquez, dip into the works of the Greek tragedians. There are so many books, so many stories, so many needs—too many to ever fit in a single list. It is for this reason that I will leave my shelves mostly disorganized. I know the right book will call to me when I’m looking for something else.