Lost in the World of Books

I simply cannot imagine life without the joy of reading. The world of books, or rather the umpteen worlds, were opened to me from a very early age. The Famous Five and Secret Seven of Enid Blyton’s imagination accompanied me throughout my English childhood, appealing to my inner tomboy, justifying my dislike for anything ‘girlie’ and feeding my love of billycarts, climbing trees, homemade bows and arrows and the adventures that followed in the wake of such pursuits.

Just like walking into a movie theatre, I have no trouble in suspending reality for a time while I immerse myself in a world of someone else’s making, experiencing the ups and downs of the characters’ lives in the hope that a beneficial resolution will be reached before the final page or closing scene. A story is not simply several thousand words poured out of someone’s brain, but an entry point.

When I open a book and find dialogue, it’s a stark reminder that there are going to be people in there.

                      Sue Hepworth/Jane Linfoot  -  Plotting for Beginners

We become invested in the joys and challenges these characters experience, the twists and turns of plots as disaster looms. If it were not so, the Harry Potter books would not have caused such a stir and resulted in a resurgence of reading amongst the younger population, and no one would be binge watching such series as Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead.

I value my personal library, not for its monetary worth, but for the breadth and depth of creativity that has brought me so much delight as their many characters and settings are brought to life. Nothing gives me more pleasure than spending an hour or so in my favourite second-hand bookshop stocking up, especially at this time of year when an afternoon in front of the fire is just begging for a good book. There is always a sense of anticipation as I approach the beginning of each one. 

Funnily enough, I have always found the practice of searching out a first edition and the monetary value attached to such a book a strange phenomenon. A writer writes because he or she desires to do so, or is compelled to do so, not by some outside influence, though no doubt some publishers or editors or agents have turned on the screws to make their money-making charges get moving to meet their deadlines. The inner compulsion to get what is in one’s head and heart transferred on to the page has been raging since time immemorial. The writer writes because there is a story to be written, or a poem, a play, an essay, a conglomeration of ideas waiting to be gathered and put together in such a way that not only the author is satisfied, but those who read it are equally gratified or inspired. To complete a book and see it published must be a wonderful feeling, something I have never managed to achieve, but I doubt authors, even of the calibre of Dickens and Shakespeare, would see the point in their very first volumes hot off the press of whatever masterpiece, being so highly valued over those published in subsequent print runs. No matter when the book is published, the story remains the same.

The great thing about books was the solidity of the written word. You might change and your reading might change as a result, but the book remained whatever it had always been.

                            Karen Joy Fowler  -  The Jane Austen Book Club

At a market many years ago I found four volumes of Myths and Legends – Classic, Celtic, Teutonic, and Egyptian. Paying $10 for the lot, I expect I could increase my investment a few times over should I wish to sell them, but they won’t be going anywhere any time soon. With their pale green hard covers sporting black and gold lettering and symbols, plus coloured and monochrome illustrated plates, they are a joy to hold, but for me that is not where their value lies. They were written in order to be read. All published more than a hundred years ago, I have no idea how old the volumes I have actually are, but they will become part of my inheritance, that’s for sure. 

The written word will never cease to enthral, entertain, challenge and inspire me, in whatever form it comes, but the pleasure of holding a book, turning the pages, reluctantly slipping in a bookmark as I put it on the bedside table at night, waiting for where the next chapter will take us all on this journey together, who could resist such an invitation. No matter when a book is read and by how many, the story is fresh and new each time, for each person’s reading of it brings it to life yet again. The characters are awoken. It is opening night and the actors are released on to the stage for the first time, and no matter how many might be aware of the ending, in that moment, for that person curled up on the couch, book in hand, the story is yet to unfold.