I'm not afraid to admit it, as much as it's the content I love books for, there is a small (OK, a large) part of me that is entirely bibliophilic - that is, I love books for the physical object that they are as well as the intangible words on their pages. I'm sure I'm not alone.
It's not the smell, or the papery feel, or the glorious colour on their spines racked up on the book shelf that I like, but the whole idea that this book in my hands right now, is not just something for me to look at, to learn from, to share - but has been for someone else in the past, and will be for someone else in the future.
The whole idea that this little object of paper and glue has been on a journey all of it's own. From it's birth in the printing press, on to a lorry, arranged attractively on the bookshelf, chosen by a human hand, and taken away to a new home in a little bag.
It's been carried around in bags, placed under packs of sweets, dropped on grass, scribbled on by scholars, carefully guarded until exams are over.
Does this book remember who has read it? Does it recognise their face, or the sound of their voice? Does it mind having little notes scribbled in it's otherwise pristine margins? Who knows?
I have a book on my shelf. It is a very old copy of Little Women by Louisa May Allcott. I love my book - not just because of the story that is told through it's arbitrary printed language (although it is one of my favourite stories) but because it's not really mine at all. I am but its temporary custodian.
On the inside cover there is, in blue ink, an inscription.......
"To Betty,
Merry Christmas for 1955"
That's all it says. I have no idea who wrote this. I have no idea who Betty is.
The only clue is another small inscription on the inner title page. It says......
"15p"
.......in the top corner, in pencil.
This book that I love so much, was given as a Christmas present to someone called Betty in 1955, twenty-two years before I was even born. It was then sold second-hand at a jumble sale, I imagine, to someone else who wanted it. Maybe that was my grandmother - she then passed it on to me when I was a child. Who knows who else has been its temporary custodian over the last almost 60 years? Did they love it as much as me?
I will keep this book and pass it on to my own daughters in a few years time. It smells a bit musty and the pages have weathered somewhat, but I hope that they will come to love it as much as I do, and respect how this simple little collection of paper and glue has found it's way into their possession.
I love proper, real, physical books. e-books just aren't the same.
