At first I was too shocked to reply, until I heard another voice join the chorus 'I know, they just sit around and collect dust.' How could they say that? How could they be so callous to such wonderful and dear friends? Isn't the dustiness just a reflection of the time you have had it? Of whom it came from? But how can you pass on a book, with all its beauty and meaning if it is just computer code?
This was pretty much exactly what I blurted out at them, they seemed slightly taken aback.
It became pretty clear to me then that books were in more trouble than I realised. These people were only a year my junior and already they were waving them away with a smile on their faces. No more packing up those heavy books every time you moved. No more space taken up by something you read once and never look at again.
The more the conversation progressed the more disheartened I became. I thought of the books on my bookshelf in my attic and wondered how people could be so callous. They weren't dust collectors taking up space. I would never read them once and then throw them aside. Even in my last trip overseas I had downloaded some novels onto my phone, as carrying that many books would have been difficult, what with all the other junk I was lugging about. Despite that on my return flight to Australia I just couldn't help myself. I needed a physical, tangible, ACTUAL book. And I got one too.
A couple of days later it was still bugging me. This little nagging twitch in my brain that would just not let it be. I needed to take action, so I called my Dad. If there is one thing to be counted on it is that my Dad will understand. As we talked and complained about this apparent new order with reading we decided something: a book is never really a book. It may look like a book, feel like a book and even sound like a book, whatever it is they sound like. But it is never just a book.
The thing is that the human brain never sees something, say a car, and says 'Oh, that is a car'. The human brain is far too complex to be so simple and straight forward. It sees the car and instantly recalls a number of situations where it has seen that car before. It may recall an advertisement, or maybe a friend owns a similar car.
The point is this is the same with books. I go up to my attic and see The Day of the Triffids, by John Wyndham. Instantly I am reminded of the day I found that book sitting in my Dad's closet, like a little lost treasure. I remember talking to my Dad about it and imagining how I would make my house triffid proof. I remember giving it to my wonderful boyfriend when he was looking for something to read and I remember watching him smile as he read it. I remember so much more than lugging it from house to house with all of my other books. The funny thing is, I don't remember that at all.
In the end I feel sad for those who miss out on this wonderful memory bank. Every book I own has its own memories. I have read some of them more than once and each time I find myself making a new memory of it. The best part is giving someone a book. Because it is never giving just a book, it is giving the potential of so much more...
I would love to hear your fond book memories, please let me know by leaving a comment!
