Books are like friends. Each one holds a story in addition to the story within its pages.
I still have the book our boarder gave me when I turned 10. I don’t tend to read it much anymore but it was a precious at a time when books usually came from the library.
Books are window into past present and future hobbies. Some books are for dipping in and out of, reference books pulled out to help identify that bird or flower. On my shelves practical guides to building ponds, paving and garden beds stand should to shoulder with fanciful books full of fairytale cakes only my mum could make.
And then fiction. Imaginary worlds to dive into where the way the character looks and sounds is ultimately up to you.
A friend who is an author once admitted to me she didn’t read books preferring to create stories of her own. And her stories are wonderful and now grace bookstore shelves and those of her readers, transporting us to her imagined world.
Blogs about why you don’t need to hang on to your books abound. Mari Kondo is famously quoted as saying 35 books was her optimum number. Outcry abounded. In their horror and support of books all those wading into the debate missed the all-important pronoun. The number of books Mari chooses to keep is not the number she dictates you keep.
I don’t keep all books that I read. Books are meant to be shared. A lot of the joy of a story lies in discussing it with others. Some books are only need to be read once and I release them back into the circular book economy to be read and passed on. Enjoyed in the moment until perhaps one day they land in the lap of the person who sighs with joy with each passing page and that book finds a permanent home being read and re-read.
As part of our downstairs renovation we created a library nook. Simple shelves framing the entry to the guest bedroom. All my old favourites are there and there’s plenty of room for new favourites too. How many are there? I’m really not sure I have no need to count them.
