The other day I found myself at a Barnes and Noble with only about 45 minutes free time. So I wandered through the "Annex" room where used books are sold for a fraction of their original price. The display shelves are fairly orderly, with descriptive signs like "Travel" or "Animals" or "History" or "Art." But there are other tables (and carts) where the books seem to be waiting, like orphans, in a line of other volumes clearly unrelated in any other way except that they were books. I passed one cart and pulled out a folio-type book that seemed to be bigger than the rest. Its title was something like Pilates and Ball; and when I put it back in the cart, I realized another smaller book was stuck or hidden behind it. I didn't stop to see what that book was about, but even as I walked away from the cart, I wondered whether anyone else would find it hidden away to see what the author had to say.

In another section of the "Annex," there were some excellent collections of photo-essays in books by photographers I had never heard of. One, bringing faces of children playing in the mud in Haiti and of people scourging for food in Somalia, and of a mother placing her child on an abandoned tank in some other part of the world. And on another table nearby was a book by a psychologist who was telling her readers how they could do their own therapy without paying for a therapist ~ that professionals were often unethical, and that the client couldn’t trust the promises of confidentiality. Another book was explaining how women could avoid marrying jerks; and another of poetry between hard covers with Chinese calligraphy.

Barnes and Noble has, what, thousands of books? It is a very comfortable place to spend some time; it contains an up-scale coffee shop, a second floor collection that looks down on the first floor; a room of music CDs; I once heard some musicians from Eastman perform there, and there is the occasional book-signing, or a poetry-slam. But was struck me this day in the "Annex" was all the silent voices of those thousands (and thousands?) of authors waiting to say something, if anyone would only pick the book up to read. Here, every story or insight or point-of-view or argument or solution or reflection waiting to be heard by someone willing to open up the volume. Each book, a product of some author's careful thoughts ~ or possibly a tale of broken promises, or of practical solutions to some problem, or an account of fulfilled dreams, or latent ideas needing a response.

On one of the display-tables at the main entrance to the book store were several copies of the Passover Haggadah… Somehow I have never thought of the Haggadah in the same way that I think of the other volumes at Barnes and Noble. Over the years, I've viewed the Haggadah more like a 'script' or an outline for the Seder ritual before the Seder meal. But the Barnes and Noble display got it right: the Haggadah is a book, and like the other books on the shelves, it too has its own voice. These narratives in the Haggadah did have their own authors, each with their own reasons for writing and recording the text. What compelled them to record their thoughts? What were they hoping to tell their readers ??

I'm not at all certain that we can answer these questions. A span of more than 20 centuries separates our worlds; today, with the Haggadah so much a part of the festive meal, it is hard for us to "feel" the deeper intent behind the salt-water (tears), the ha-lachma-anya (the "bread of affliction"), or the bitter herbs. Our Passover meals resonate more with the melodies of "Dayenu" and "Had Gadya," the tastes of charoset, and the hunt for the afikoman. But I wonder about the authors whose voices rest inside the Haggadahs that we set aside at the end of the meal. Would these authors be worried that we hadn't paid enough attention to their messages from the past? Or would they be pleased ~ relieved, perhaps ~ that at least for today, we didn't have to listen?

Chag Pesach sameah,

….Mike Herzbrun