The idea that arrogance and selfishness could be softened by spreading fear about books running scarce has a startling edge. Picture it in North American aisles and online shelves—the impulse to hoard every volume, to queue at libraries with plastic cards flashing like trophies, to fill shopping carts with whatever first title can be found. Some might dream of taking home cherished authors as private trophies to savor in secret. Others could imagine only disposable readings on cans and cartons, a grim hint that the supply of whole milk and other staples is dwindling because someone else refused to share and instead stored goods in garages or warehouses. Such a scene would be a sobering mirror to a world that sometimes treats ideas as merely expendable goods and could push whole communities toward a self-centered brink. This is a vision that would reduce reading to a half consumed disposable ritual rather than a shared cultural staple. It might even feel like a half measure that misses the deeper consequence of losing access to ideas that shape a society, especially in Canada and the United States where libraries, bookstores, and community reading spaces are often lifelines for many households.
If a literary famine were truly feared, households would evolve the way they approach the books they own. They would invent new ways to read the volumes already in their homes, much as people learned to bake bread and biscuits to cope with shortages during difficult times. In a world where digital libraries offer thousands of titles, many of us still choose to collect paper copies, encyclopedias, and anthologies, simply for the tactile reassurance that a shelf of knowledge is within reach. During moments of isolation in recent years, the importance of physical reading material became clear, as did the comfort of a well-stocked home library. A family might find that the act of reading aloud, sharing margins, and exchanging favorites strengthens bonds in ways that streaming alone cannot. The contrast between abundance in digital form and the tangible presence of a printed collection can reveal what we value most when time becomes scarce. This is not a call to panic, but a reminder that thoughtful stewardship of books can sustain learning and empathy long after the last page is turned.
Perhaps the lesson lies in recognizing patterns of scarcity without surrendering to panic. A reader might acknowledge that fear can blur judgment and lead to hoarding or secrecy, while a sober, communal approach preserves access for others. The idea that paper books carry a fragile fate has lingered for decades, yet history shows that the printed page endures when communities choose to protect and share it. In North America, the instinct to guard literary treasures often clashes with the obligation to keep knowledge accessible to all. The suggestion is plain: store books, read them, and share what has been read. By rekindling that sense of mutual responsibility, people may rediscover the resilience that defined quarantine days when solidarity rose from scarcity and people hoped to emerge better. It may feel like fiction, but the memory of those days offers a real blueprint for how to respond to future pressures. The path forward is not flashy or dramatic; it is steady and practical—read, lend, discuss, and keep the shelves alive for the longer journey ahead. [Citation: North American literacy and library resilience studies]