My Life with Books

It seems I missed World Book Day. It was April 23rd. As someone who worships at the altar of books, I’m surprised I didn’t even know there was such a day. It makes sense, of course. There are days to commemorate holidays in every religion, and every illness that plagues humanity. There are days to honor every culture, and every social movement. There’s even a national salad day and a day set aside to appreciate chocolate cake.

I inherited my love of books from my grandparents and parents. Gagadaddy, my English maternal grandfather, used to sit me on his knee in front of the fire while he read Dickens to me. I was five, and I was mesmerized. My Gaga, his wife, had a collection of turn of the century novels she’d read as a young woman, and they both bequeathed to me books their parents had collected in the Nineteenth Century, or books won as awards in school. My mum’s first love was music, but she also read when she could (there were seven of us kids). Throughout my childhood, my father combed through pawn shops and second-hand stores, searching for book bargains. When I was eight or nine, he gave me a beautifully bound full set of Kipling; I was devastated when much of it was lost in a flood some decades ago.

When I want to unplug my brain and relax, I read mysteries and thrillers (in a similar way, my husband unwinds by watching music documentaries and history). I read history, also, and biographies, autobiographies and memoirs. I love art and music, and I like reading about artists and musicians. I read books about business, books on current events, and books about the evolution, culture and politics of countries around the world. I read books on spirituality and psychology, but less than I used to do.

I enjoy books on science, when they’re not too far over my head. I like poetry, adventure stories, and travel books. I don’t much like romance novels, unless they’re primarily mysteries with some romance thrown in. I like a lot of what’s called women’s fiction, though, and literary fiction. I enjoy historical novels. Lately I’ve been reading my way through the work of an Irish author named Jean Grainger. When I find a writer I like, I love finding all his or her books. That’s one of the reasons I’m so grateful I live in the age of the internet.

Off and on over the years, I’ve thought about cataloging and writing a short synopsis of all the books I’ve read, not for anyone else, but for myself. Cataloging would help me to remember and keep track, particularly of the books that had an impact on me. It’s the kind of project that could occupy my downtime (hours I’d otherwise spend reading), and would, I think, be pleasurable. It would also allow me to refer back to an author, or a series, and see whether I’ve read the book I’m considering next.  

At this point in my life (I’m 73), such a catalog would remind me of details I’ve forgotten. Of course, it would deprive me of the joy of opening a book I’ve already read, and experiencing it anew. I often read something and recognize I’ve read it before, but I no longer recall whether or not Professor Plum killed the cook.

I have a serious problem with reading, and it’s hard to talk about without sounding egotistical. Please hear me out without judging, and without discounting the difficulty I face. It’s a real thing.

I read so quickly it’s a tremendous challenge to keep myself supplied with books.  And yes, my reading comprehension is excellent. It’s some quirk of my brain, and I can’t seem to slow the pace. It’s the intellectual equivalent of having a carton of coffee ice cream in the freezer. I open the first page and it’s off to the races, holding on the the reins and rushing headlong to the end of the course.  Forgive the mixed metaphors.

I have shelves full of books given me as gifts, or found in used book stores, and new books I bought myself as a treat. I have a sensual relationship with books; I love the smell and feel of the paper, the cover art, and the heft as I hold them in my hand. At one point I had six or seven thousand books, but in recent years I’ve winnowed down to around fifteen hundred. I use both the actual and virtual library, and I have adapted to ebooks. Despite my initial resistance, I’ve come to appreciate the Kindle app on my iPad, and embrace the fact I can travel lightly with a seemingly limitless number of books.

I’m becoming an expert on Kindle Unlimited, which lets me borrow books by authors I know and like, some wonderful previously undiscovered authors, as well as a lot of badly written trash. In times of desperation, however, I’ve been known to read the trash. Over my lifetime I’ve undoubtedly read thousands of books unworthy of my time and attention. This may qualify me as an addict.

After doing some research, I’ve identified a few online platforms that might allow me to quickly find and catalog the books I’ve read. At this point, I’m simply trying to decide if it’s a project I really want to undertake. I calculate I have read an average of 500 or more books a year, every year since I was thirteen. That’s sixty years, or 30,000 books. Many of the books I read in childhood influenced me in adulthood. I’d probably want to include those as well.

I know many of my readers and friends also love books. Do you keep track of them in some way? Do you have a resource to recommend?