My name is Emma, and I am a chronic bibliophile. I recently began cataloguing my personal library (after all, what else does one do with a barcode scanner and spare hard drive space?) and have discovered that there are an awful lot of books in this house. It was suggested by someone I was speaking with that maybe I should cull them; that I would be better served by freeing up the shelf space and borrowing books from the library instead.Faced with the prospect of culling my herd, I can’t do it. Emma, I say to myself, you like to read and you shouldn’t have to give up your books. It’s a perfectly reasonable attitude to hold, I think. After all, reading expands the mind, improves the vocabulary, and allows you to experience (through your imagination) things that you might not otherwise find in your life. If I had to wait until these mind-expanding books were available at the library, my mind might (in fact) begin to shrink. This is true and I will not hear a word otherwise.
Because of my prolific reading habits, I have an excellent command of the English language. My reading encouraged me to take English as my second major at University, and I am now aquainted with Milton, Shakespeare, Austen, and Malory (some much better than others, I must admit). I used to pinch my dad’s library books as a child, which goes some way towards explaining my fascination with speculative fiction and military/espionage thrillers (and especially with those books that combine the two).
None of this, however, explains the 5 bookshelves in our house that are full of books. Some of my books are double-shelved for lack of space. I have to face facts. My name is Emma, and I am a chronic bibliophile. Most bibliophiles would simply read everything at their local library and then join the one in the council next door, but not me. I buy my books, and I keep them. I will even buy books that I have already read; ones that I came across at the library, or a friend’s collection, and loved so much that I have just had to have a copy of my own.
What to do about this book habit of mine? When I got engaged, I realised that it was a good reason to go through and cull my collection; after all, I didn’t want to bring useless stuff into the marriage (my excellent doctor’s bench notwithstanding) and I even had a few of my books still in boxes from my last move, over 12 months ago. So, I went through my library and resolved to get rid of any books that I didn’t like, and wasn’t going to read again. This was an excellent idea, I told myself, and given that my book collection at the time stood at about a hundred volumes, I was sure I could lose a significant number. A hundred is a lot of books, I told myself. So, I culled. I sold about 10 to a book exchange and then gave another five to charity. There were only 15 in that collection that I didn’t like enough to want to read again. And surprise, surprise, they were pretty much all the ones that hadn’t been unpacked. About a box worth.
I could cull my books again, I suppose, and only keep the ones I really like, the ones that I would weep to lose. Or, I could keep only the “highbrow” collection of literature and philosophy and theology. Then again, I could keep only the “useful” books: the texts and the cookbooks.
Any of these options would be a betrayal, though, and this is what explains my shelves full of books. I can’t get rid of them. Books have been a part of the happy times in my life. Books expanded my mind and encouraged me to think about things from alien perspectives. Books inspired my love of creative writing. Books fuelled my hunger to know. I may not always have listened to them, but they always spoke.
Books have also been a part of the harder times in my life. Books were what kept me away from the class bully. Books didn’t care that I wasn’t the cool, popular kid at school**. Books took me to familiar places and old friends when I moved out of home, across the country, to a place where I knew nobody.
I can’t get rid of my books, you see, and now you know why. My books are good at being books. They have characters and plots and settings that draw me in, until I find myself dreaming at night about the things I have read during the day. If I got rid of them, I would be telling them that they were not worthy of bookishness. Beyond their intrinsic value, the few dollars spent on paper and ink and binding, I would be saying that there was nothing. And to say that my books have no value beyond their elements would be a lie.
Because of my books, I have sat in a Japanese tea-house of the early 20th century. I have ridden the breadth of continents that never existed except in the imaginings of the authors. I have walked through rock to the centre of the earth, and submersed myself 20,000 leagues under the sea. I have quietly padded behind adventurers as they move through caves, careful not to wake the dragon. I have crouched atop a ridge, patiently marking time behind the sniper with his scope. I have travelled the invisible roads of neural networks, hunting wrongdoers and hoping not to be disonnected. I have spun in the weightlessness of space, and watched as people fight for their lives and sanity in harsh vacuum.
My name is Emma, and I am a bibliophile. And you know what? I think I’m going to go buy another book.
**This is quite amusing, now, because my nerdy-booky nature is what has endeared me to many of the friends I have. The rest hang out with me because there’s always a chance I’ll drink that extra pint and try and set my hand on fire with an aerosol can.
Posted on January 25th, 2010 by Bosun McShiny
Filed under: Literature, Pontificating
Leave a Reply