A brief meditation on Ecclesiastes

In broken tetrameter

Of the making of books there is no end
But of the reading, a downward trend

All because there are far too many
To touch before we reach our ending

And that’s not counting this new wave
Of books by artificial brains

It’s information overload
Splashing into the commode

Great books, they yet abound, say I
Just skip the ones made by AI

But still some books not made of digits
Or spat out by a bot in minutes

Are worth no more than they, I fear
Having not one thing that’s dear

To the one who made it—the author—
The one who had something to offer

Some perspective, or experience,
Some little reason not to quit.

Those others are made to make a buck
Off you or me or some other schmuck

They may be crafted with precision
But only to match some algorithm

Those books are made to meet demand
For an audience that would soon remand

Whatever made us doubt within
Or revealed to us our life of sin

And that’s ok. There’s no obligation
To write something that heals a nation

Or changes you, or explores a whim,
Or even goes out on a limb

All books turn to dust regardless
Of their worth to man or progress

So why even make a distinction
If there is no need to read them?

There’s one contrasting characteristic
Between what is art and kitsch

Good books don’t need an audience
They had to write it; it's part of them

Art can be so far from phoney
Without appearing in the Smithsonian

And in that truth there is some comfort
A book’s value is secure, if only for the author

If a book’s inside you, it can be let out
It doesn’t matter whether it’s talked about

Cast your book upon the waters—
You’ll find it
God seeks what is driven away.

King Solomon in Old Age by Gustave Doré (1866)