It’s simple, really.
One must aim to hold it from the bottom right (as the bottom left increases the friction in the air due to its weight) and hurl it like a dart at anything. A wall, stairs or (better yet) other books. It’s all in the wrist, trust me. Keep your forearm aligned with your hand. Whether your books are a paperback novel, an anthology of humorous quotations or an autobiography of a businessman who grew up in the slums, the technique is the same. Use your elbow as a pivot to induce maximum damage. Take advantage of your shoulder’s flexibility. For a grander dramatic effect, you may grace a yell, a raven-like shriek, some Chinese onomatopoeia or even some irreverent obscenities. The art of throwing a book is essential.
After all, it’s all in the rage, right? It’s a self-consuming fashion. Also, a rather marvelous statement, a forte to this raucous generation’s cocktail of obsessions with pop culture, celebrity life, image, with mediocre franchises, sucking egotistic industrial consummation and pretentious over-paid self-indulgent youth expressing so called anguish through media. Besides, what are writers, but mere amateurs with nothing but heart, mind, soul, spirit, sweat, style and honesty. Joyce was a rambler, Dostoevsky was not right in the head, Salinger was a recluse, Burroughs, jacked on junk, and Fitzgerald on funk. Orwell was a paranoid and Hemingway a hack.
When collections of mere pieces of paper, in fiction, non-fiction, poetry, short stories, happen to signify more meaning in a single line than most lives have summarized in a decade, why do we wander through the moronic expressions of philosophy of an overpaid paid actor with such a humble heart of gold that he graces us by speaking or of a high school teacher who has surrendered all other systems of intelligence but his own? The answers to life are not there. They lie in pages. Every hopelessness is answerable in ink and blood. But we have created a generation built by Bradbury and Huxley’s fears. Readers are becoming an endangered species. Censorship is fading in literature when the common man outgrows books, like a man ‘outgrows’ an emotion or an animal ‘outgrows’ its cub. We toss away the book. We hurl it. But we often forget.
The first step to throwing a book…….is picking it up.