For the Love of Books

I have two shelves of books in my bedroom (the others being at my parents’ house). One shelf is full of books I’ve read, but will more than likely want to read again. They include books like Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials, a series by Malorie Blackman and The House of Leaves.

My second shelf consists of books I need to read, and it’s growing by the second. I seriously can’t have enough books. I received a book today from Amazon, and even though I probably won’t get to read it for a while, there’s just something so familiar and nice about having a proper book in your hands begging for you to read it.

In some way, books to me are like mini-world’s, and when I open the cover, I just don’t know what I’m expecting to find in this world – and it’s exciting and enthralling, and sometimes a little disappointing. When I read a book it gives me the sense of relaxation I can’t get from anything else – not listening to music, not taking a bath. In fact the only reason I look forward to baths and not showers is because I can read in the bath. Similarly the best part about sunbathing is reading a good book. The best part about going to bed is sneaking in half-hour reading time. The only good thing about public transport is that I could read on the bus. But driving…no, I’d definitely crash or something. I’ve thought about audio books but they’ll do the voice all wrong and speak slower than I’d like :l

And yet I struggle to find time to read. Unless I really get into a book, it can take me months to finish one. But my Goodreads list piles up and so does my “to-read” shelf and I find myself trawling the book section at every supermarket and wistfully looking in at Waterstones and WHSmiths (popular UK bookstores). Despite my 20 or so books I already have, it’s almost like I treat books like abandoned orphans and I think they desperately need a home – my home.

You would think a love for books means I’d read any old thing, but I don’t. I’m very particular about books and I suppose that’s why when I read something from a series or an author I like I go back to them again and again. In some ways it’s incredibly rewarding, but in others it can limit my reading experience.

When I read a good book, I close it and sigh, satisfied and complete at reading something that means more than others see it for. I could never buy and make use of ebooks or a Kindle, because to me, those books are just online text – the words don’t mean as much when they are on-screen. Could I be reading an actual book by Margaret Atwood, or just another book by another author that reads off the screen like a Facebook status?

There’s just something about having an actual book in your hands you just can’t get with anything else. The feel of the pages, the spine when it’s a book that’s be read over and over. The alignment of a set of books stacked neatly on your shelf. Books aren’t just paper and ink, they are art, an art that doesn’t hold the same meaning on-screen.

I’ve always read books. I’ve read things ranging from outstanding to down-right atrocious, yet with every turn of the page I become enthralled with the world of writing. Even the act of writing itself is therapeutic; so therapeutic in fact that it helps me when nothing else has. I feel compelled to read, as well as I feel compelled to write but I’ve never been able to figure out what draws me to it the way it does.

There’s nothing quite like the feel of a book in your hands, begging for you to read it. There are not enough hours in the day or stillness in the atmosphere to settle down and read a good book.

Does anyone else have this book-fetish? What great book(s) have you read?



Oh, I also changed my background from plain-old colour to something a bit more readerly ^_^


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