Summer Reading Bliss: A Retrospective

 "There is a temperate zone in the mind, between luxurious indolence and exacting work;    and it is to this region, just between laziness and labor, that summer reading belongs."  

~ Henry Ward Beecher 

Now that summer is drawing to a close I realise I am really going to miss my reading time.

There is nothing more definitive of summer for me than lying in the garden with the sun spotlighting the pages of a book (or indeed, as the case was most of the time this year - indoors at a window brailled with rain...) Summer may be the best time ever for reading. All that light. All that time outdoors. All that sense of escapism - of time unfolding in front of you as a wide golden berth, an endless horizon to fill with all kinds of dreaming and imagining, books the perfect propellers to imagination's engine.  Whole days to read, late nights and lazy mornings, and as such, the ability to immerse yourself completely in different worlds, uninterrupted. Bliss, in a word.

'One benefit of summer was that each day we had more light to read by.' ~ Jeanette Walls

This summer I have been gluttonous in my reading, navigating narratives on rainy days, sunny days, early mornings and late nights. There is always though, one defining book for me each summer, one that the whole summer seems to hang upon and reverberate from. A book that I can tell you exactly every nuance of what weather was doing while I was reading it; a book that led to more books of its kinds and countless imaginings; a book that dragged me hook, line and sinker into its world and still has not let go. That book for me, this year has to have been the recent Pulitzer prize-winning 'All the Light We Cannot See' by  Anthony Doerr. 

                                                                      

“The brain is locked in total darkness, of course, children, says the voice. It floats in a clear liquid inside the skull, never in the light. And yet the world it constructs in the mind is full of light. It brims with color and movement. So how, children, does the brain, which lives without a spark of light, build for us a world full of light?”  
 

This book is, as the title declares, a story full of light. Light in its most essential essence - revealing every little detail so as to illuminate this particular period in time, this particular story of life. The story is set during WWII in France and Germany, following the fates of two characters whose lives are intertwined -  Marie-Laure, a young blind girl who flees to St-Malo with her father when the Germans invade Paris and a young German boy, Werner, as he leaves the orphanage of his younger years to join the Hitler Youth and from there, the war. It is a story of war, but also of fate and character, of beauty and light. The writing, as I've come to expect from Doerr, is crystalline, rich in metaphor and image, sparkling with a poetic delight. The characters are all so memorable, so well-drawn that it was hard to close the page on them and leave them behind. It's a big novel, 500+ pages, but I sped through it, riveted by the dual narrative, the simultaneous plotting, the suspense, the beautiful language, the stories within stories.

I ended up then searching out other WWII novels (Suite Francaise, The English Patient, The Book Thief) so enthralled was I in that time.  But the story that Doerr tells is so unique and original, so unusual, that my search I know will be in vain. His shimmers like a fairytale but is also underpinned with a psychology that is so precise, and told in a voice that is so full of poetry and faith and hope.  It's the kind of book that immerses you in its story so much, especially its setting of St-Malo, the sea-swept walled town in Brittany, you will have not left it entirely when the story is over. (I can still smell the salt and see the narrow streets, the snail-lined hideaway, the shell-like house...) Anyway, you can read my Goodreads review of it: here. I highly, heartily, recommend it. You will learn new and surprising things about a time that is well-documented and what is most vital in a piece of fiction, be transported completely and irrevocably to the world of the novel. 

My guilty escapist summer reads (don't you just love those?) included nearly all of American author Sarah Addison Allen's novels. The experience akin to the succulent sweetness of a summer evening, the smell of sugar on the air and thrill of pink in the sky.  Sarah Addison Allen's novels fall under the genre of magic realism, but added to that should be romantic magic realism and whimsy. Her stories are light whimsical concoctions where conflicts dissolve and romances blossom with the help of a few magical stimuli (think floral food spells, eccentric family traits and characters, moon lore, fairy godmother ghosts, animate books and animals, and emotions manifesting in transformative ways.) All set in the lovely surrounds of North Carolina with quaint little towns and endearing characters. The author has often been compared to Alice Hoffman, but I'd say much more sugar-coated and whimsy-orientated. (Garden Spells, is, a bit like Practical Magic, but sweeter and more gorgeously decorative with food recipes and the like.) For me, they are also reminiscent of Nicholas Sparks films, but definitely with more quirky than cutesy elements and more original set pieces than predictable story-lines. Whimsical, wonderful, sensuous, feel-good feasts. 

 

They are also girly without being chick-lit - i.e. entirely consumed with love-life conundrums. They are whimsical, foody, dreamy and emotional without smacking of sentimentality, light quest narratives of becoming true to oneself. In a word they're lovely, with all its soothing connotations: cushy, cosy, charming and warm-hearted. Delightful reads that will transport you to worlds ruled by the heart. They are books to enjoy lying in daisy-spotted grass, the sun glinting gold lattice light on the pages, books to script daydreams by, all tinged with that rose-tint happy horizon glow of dreams coming true, if you just follow your heart (definitely a selling-point for summer evenings, when the light is long and lovely and softens any hard reality into a malleable dream-able one.)

Sound like the ideal summer fodder to you? Yep, if you need a break from serious literature and are a lovers of all things whimsical, these are my recommended choice.  

Other highlights of my summer reads included the sci-fi thriller (and soon-to-be-movie-release) 'The Martian' by Andy Weir; wallowing in the gorgeous language and light of Hardy's 'Far From the Madding Crowd'; the brutally stunning debut 'The Enchanted' by Rene Denfield; and the lilting and lovely weather-appropriate 'History of the Rain' by Irish author Niall Williams.

They say a great book is like an event and well if that's the case,  a variety of great summer reads makes for an eventful time. Every book I read in summer seems to stay with me more. Maybe it hearkens back to days of school holidays with an open, endless parade of reading time and the freedom of self-chosen material. Days at the beach round-reading with friends or early mornings in the garden trying to unreel the knotted words of classics  into a language that brimmed with gold, in hours that seemed gleefully stolen from life's frantic advancing pace. Reading is perfect for summer as it slows time down, even freeze-frames certain instances. You can press a moment between the pages of a book as well and delicately as you can a flower; there are in every book I've read from summers past, fragments of that time's goings-on preserved in their pages. Each book is a marker and a map of a particular summer's best-kept moments. That's why I savour summer reading. And now that it is coming to an end, there is always a certain melancholy. With it too, all those sunlit moments of endless basking, daydreaming, whimsy, freedom, spontaneity, possibility and panache, that are the hallmarks of summer's narrative. But while it lasted, sheer unadulterated reading/living bliss. 

Ah.

So what have been your favourite summer reads? What stories have coloured your carefree days with narratives of worlds foreign and afar? Transported you on their magic carpet rides against a backdrop of pink-frilled skies and silken soft hours? What have  been the makings of your storied summer? Here's to holding its stories dear, both read and written, both imagined and real.

~ Siobhán

Can Writers Read Too Much?

As an insatiable reader I would automatically answer the question the title of this post poses with a vehement No! But as a writer, I'm beginning to wonder if there is such a thing as reading too much.

Reading, it goes without saying, is essential to writing. It is the yin to its yang. One can't exist without the other. They're the two sides of one coin. One the passive part, the other the active, a type of verbal inhalation and creative exhalation. But when engaging in both these sides, is it necessary to find balance between the two? Like a see-saw, will one go down if the other goes up? It's all about achieving balance. And recently my scales have been off (by a truckload of books).

 

What exactly is reading too much? On an ordinary scale, until your eyes hurt would usually be a tip-off. Or until words kick up a blunderbuss through your head obscuring fiction and reality (ahem, guilty, several times over). But for a writer to read too much? What does that mean when writers, out of all people, read SO much? It is a part of their work after all. But what is the quantity of reading that will impede upon writing? And can it really impede, as its primary function is first and foremost always to encourage?

On the one hand I feel like I am feeding the furnaces of writing with reading so many books; on the other, like I am shutting them off. I love to read. All writers love to read, all encourage wide reading if you want to be a writer (Stephen King advises us to read 'a lot'.  MFA writing courses have lengthy reading lists.) But I wonder - how much reading exactly? Because it is an activity that could prove infinite - once you start, you just can't stop! I find myself while in the midst of a reading binge wanting to write, but, ultimately putting it off. Wait until this book is finished, which inevitable becomes another book and another book.

You may all have heard of and read the iconic textbook on creativity Julia Cameron's 'The Artist's Way' and found it inspirational, stimulating, encouraging to the highest strata. I loved it yes. I cherish it as one of the most inspirational guides to writing ever written, but there's just one component of it I had trouble with. And no it was not the controversial morning pages (I did groan at them but liked them), but rather the chapter where she urged us NOT TO READ. Yep, to effectively ban reading from our daily schedules for two weeks I think it was, so that our own ink could flow better. 

I never liked that idea, but I did try it. But my 'reading diet' only lasted for a while. I mean, how can you not read? She insisted it was because it could be a distraction to writing. The idea being that it's easier to read than write. Easy to pick up a book than a pen, a feather as opposed to a heavyweight. And I suppose, easy to get discouraged by all the greatness of literature to ever pick up a pen again. But really, easier to hide away in the already written word than to be the one out there forging it. All the better, she urges, to hear our own voice. I suppose she has a point. 

                                                              

I'm thinking of this now as I realise I've been doing a lot of reading lately. Because I let my reading slide for a long hiatus once, I am now even more determined to get stuck in.  I'm on Goodreads and love the challenge of trying to read 50+ books within a year. I deliberately took this number so I could read a book a week or thereabouts, a good balance I thought. But - big BUT - I have noticed that my writing time has suffered in the process. 

I'm not the only writer to feel like this. I came across a quote from Susan Sontag recently that echoes this feeling in a blunt admittance: "I read too much - as an escape from writing". In a Paris Review interview talking about how she gets started writing, she said: "Getting started is partly stalling, stalling by way of reading and of listening to music, which energizes me and also makes me restless." That's it exactly - reading energizes us, puts us in the take-off point for writing, but too much of it and not enough writing can indeed make us 'restless.' I often stall writing too by reading and listening to music. (At this point in the post, I have listened to a full album on repeat and read about five articles on Susan Sontag, not to mention a few other blogs AND found another book to order in the course of all that...)

I haven't written a lot in a while. My spare time has been more easily filled with books. And I suppose if you have the slightest bit of writing block, books can soon turn it into a Berlin Wall Blockade. They fill the hours with their quiet insistence and their word-worlds swarm around your head, leaving no room for burgeoning ones of your own. It's not so much a case of stage-fright when it comes to your own blank page, but more like so many words buzzing in your head it's hard to find your own in their (marvelous) cacophony.

Looking at the daily routines of famous writers, it is clear that they distinctly differentiate reading and writing, most to the strict tune of writing first - dawn or morning and reading second - evening usually, when all the 'work' is done. I wonder is there an optimum time for reading and an optimum time for writing? Or does it depend solely on mood or preference?  Is it better then to write in the daytime and read at night? Or what about your one precious hour of free-time - read or write? One is relaxing, the other invigorating. If I read at night, I sleep sound. If I write at night, I'm up all night, brain buzzing in a blizzard of words. I try to do both every day, ideally equally, but my pattern of late has been reading first, writing second. Or a few days binge reading and then binge writing. 

I have loved my reading time recently, but am missing my writing time. Maybe there is a limit that needs to be imposed in order to write at a more efficient pace. I'm thinking now maybe it is necessary, as Julia Cameron advised, to go cold turkey on reading in order to be in serious writing mode, well at least a little bit cold turkey. I suppose you can't  make headway on your novel while your head's down the rabbit hole of another book can you? 

The act of reading subconsciously preps the mind's terrain for the act of writing. It is fuel for the fire of writing. For this reason I feel, as all writers likely do, that the more I read, the better I will write and to this account, can end up reading for days and days without writing. But I'll admit the relative 'easiness' of it is a kind of luxury limbo I can fall into now and then. To drag myself out of it and actually put myself into writing mode again feels like dragging yourself out of a cosy warm bed in the morning, the duvet too much of a comfort to discard just yet, it being also an incubator for dreams. 

 

I read a really interesting article recently criticising MFAs in which the writer said something really evocative - that writers ('real writers' ahem) read from childhood so as to form the appropriate 'neural architecture' required for writing. Don't you just love that phrase?! From it I picture an inner Rococo mind with cascading columns on which cherubic angels of inspiration alight, crossed with a flickering neon super-accelerated sci-fi-like set. Writing is hard-wired into our minds alright and every new piece of literature we read adds another feature to this architecture. But it's important to realise that this neural architecture is there - waiting for us to start reaping its glories.

Whatever about a time to read and a time to write, there has to be a time to know when one over-arches into the other's territory. I remember the days of writing assignments at college in which there was an 'incubation period' first, usually 1-4 weeks, in which research was done and knowledge gleaned, a time to collect all the necessary content and stimuli.  And then, just like that, a time to stop and get down to the writing of it, a sort of D-Day of deliberation. You knew it when it happened: your own fully-formed opinions would pulse to be processed, ripe for the picking. To spend more time researching was a kind of cop-out, a faltering, a delusion and frankly, with a deadline looming - a danger. You were ready. It was now or never. I'm thinking it is the same for writing now, albeit with no deadline looming, except the personal ones. Now, it is even more imperative to impose those D-Days especially when you can lose the run of yourself in reading. To harness the 'energy' of reading as Susan Sontag put it, and dispel that 'restlessness.'
   

I wonder what is the process for other aspiring writers - how do you balance your reading with your writing? Should there be a balance? Do you go on occasional reading diets to feed your writing?  Advice appreciated! 

~Siobhán. 

Seasonal Reading Selections

Well it's Christmas Eve! We all have our traditions we uphold on this day - from trimming the turkey to a last-minute shopping dash to midnight mass. One of my time-honoured ones, is indulging in some seasonal reading for a magical effect. 

There are certain things I always read on Christmas Eve. Poems of course. Carol Ann Duffy's jolly take on the traditional 'Twas The Night Before Christmas' (in a mini book version I have, gorgeously illustrated by Rob Ryan) is full of Christmas Eve magic. You can read the entire poem here: Another Night Before Christmas

Other must-read poems include first and foremost the magical 'Various Portents', by Alice Oswald, TS Eliot's 'Journey of the Magi', John Betjeman's 'Christmas' and UA Fanthorpe's BC: AD.  (You can read all these poems by clicking on their titles).

Jeanette Winterson posts an annual Christmas-themed short story on her website every Christmas Eve, an event which has become long-anticipated and very special to her fans. Her story from a few years ago, 'The Lion, The Unicorn and Me' (now available as a children's book) is particularly endearing and one of my favourite things to read on Christmas Eve. Check out her website here: http://www.jeanettewinterson.com/new-xmas-story/

Another short story I like to read on Christmas Eve is James Joyce's 'The Dead' with that famous goosebump passage on snow: 

''It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”

And lastly of course, there's this timeless classic, the 1897 New York Sun editorial in response to a young girl's query as to whether there is a Santa Claus or not -  Yes Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus, which has become infamous, and rightly so, for its heartwarming endearing content.

Merry Christmas everyone! 

~ Siobhán

Why Books Make The Best Gifts

Books are the greatest gifts.  I firmly believe this. All my Christmases are marked in memory primarily by what books I was curled in a chair reading: from Roald Dahl's 'The Witches' to 'To Kill a Mockingbird', 'Lord of the Rings', and 'The Hunger Games.' There's an epic quality to Christmas reading - what with all those endless free days to pursue uninterrupted journeys into the fictional world (or worlds) of your choosing. Christmas reading time is the best reading time, the most involving, the most enjoyable.

I always buy books as gifts. I think the absolute best gift you can give anyone is a book. Especially children. There is no better gift for little ones to indulge their imagination and grow their mind at the same time. 

Anyway, here is the main gist of this post -

Why  Books Are The Best Gifts To Give This Christmas:

1. Books are easy to wrap. 

Yes, you won't be cursing odd angles and tricky sticky-tape positions with a book. It's as right-angled and linear as you can get and foolproof even to butter-fingered wrappers like myself. 

2. Books are entirely suitable for all age groups. 

From children to grandparents, there's a book for all and all in the one store. How easy is that?!

3. And there is a book for everyone. 

Biographies, poetry, travel books - there is a book for everyone out there. Even people who don't read - why not get them a book that will hook and make a book lover out of them! Now that's a real gift.

4. A book is a thoughtful present. 

Which is to say that it requires thought being put into what the giftee in question likes; what their interests are; what they enjoy and really, a knowledge of who they are. A book is not an easy pick-up one-size-fits-all present, but rather a personalised one. A well-chosen book shows that the giver knows the person well and appreciates their tastes.

5. Books are the ideal entertainment for betwixt 'n' between the days of Christmas and New Year's.

When the novelty of the gadgets have worn off and the TV is a big bland bore, books will be like manna from heaven to jaded indulgers. There's no better time of year to immerse yourself in a book than the holiday season - curl up by the fire and make the best use of free time. Or escape from a hectic hinterland by delving into new worlds at the simple brush of a page. Christmas is also a time when we're indoors a lot, books allow us to take our imaginations on armchair expeditions. 

6. Book shopping is NOT in the least stressful. 

Bookstores are calm establishments, even in the midst of Christmas hustle and bustle, like veritable oases in the deserts of materialism mayhem. Walking into a bookstore is a zen experience at any time of the year, but at Christmas its hushed tones are a welcome antidote. See, they are always quiet - no music blaring, no gaggle of gift-searchers in a panic or huffing and puffing toe-tapping queues (book buyers are always a civilised group). People are reading, so there is guaranteed quiet, a golden calm aroma that soaks into the mind like an elixir.  There are even seats (and sofas!) for you to sit and relax with a book, a try-before-you-buy experience. I often just wander into a bookstore to snatch a moment of calm, to inhale a few words of inspiration, relaxation. And books are easy to get, they rarely sell out, unlike say, digital items. You can even buy them from the comfort of your armchair, online, and sweat-free. There are also hassle-free handy book-tokens.

7. A Book is an automatic ticket to me-time, quiet-time, take-it-easy time. 

Giving a book as a gift to someone is as good as a spa ticket. It will guarantee that in the midst of mad festivities, there will be a timely time-out to avail of in there somewhere. 

8.  Books are inexpensive.

Got a tight budget? That's okay. Books are not expensive. There are books to suit everyone's budget.  Bargain books cost very little. And yet every book yields endless priceless wealth.

9. A book is a gift that is actually good for you. 

A book is a gift that flatters your imagination, your intelligence, not your fickle vanity desires or your sweet tooth cravings. A book is candy to the mind, balm to the heart, and carries no unwanted calories or risk of disappointment. 

10. Books are for life not just for Christmas! 

A book may be read within the holiday season but its effect will be ever-lasting, you can be sure of that. A good book will never be forgotten and will ink itself on your soul, enabling you to read life so much better. What could be a better gift than that? 

As Neil Gaiman puts it: “Books make great gifts because they have whole worlds inside of them. And it's much cheaper to buy somebody a book than it is to buy them the whole world!” 

Ah, yes.

Happy book-buying and reading!

~ Siobhán

Confessions of a Bibliophile (Part I)

 

It's September. A perfect month for talking about books, books and more books. 

I've extolled the virtues of reading many times here, but now I want to turn to books themselves.  Because yes, I am a bibliophile, a bibliophile being: a lover of books, one who loves to read, admire and collect books.

I love books. Reading them, collecting them, being next to them, sniffing them, admiring them. Books are an obsession to me. I must have them. I buy at least one every week. (Truthfully, most weeks it's two or three...)  I simply don't feel right if I don't buy one! Even though my to-read pile is approaching dangerous heights, the week is not complete if I don't add to it. And for every book I purchase, I find ten others that I would like to get! It's an endless but enjoyable quest. 

Buying a book never creates guilt, not like say, buying clothes would. Books are just so easy to buy, unlike the physical exertions of buying new garments. Although I am not averse to stylish wearing and a big believer in au mode - fashion builds you from the outside, but books build you from the inside. If you want to invest in a personality, buy books. If you want to furnish your mind, buy books. If you want to nourish your soul, buy books. Who knows how one will transform your life view, shed light on subjects you never even knew existed and present thoughts and feelings to you in a exhilarating helter-skelter of words, new worlds at the flick of a few pages. Kipling was right - words are the most powerful drugs known to mankind.

I love being in the presence of books.  In a strange space I gravitate towards the bookshelves to regain my familiar equilibrium. Houses, schools, workplaces, dentists, doctors. Books okay the space by adding character, warmth, meaning. Books are clues that lives are being lived. Books are signs that people there are not immune to immersing themselves in a bubbling hot-tub of life through literature's lens. 

And what is a bibliophile's favourite place in the world? Why a bookstore of course. Bookstores are hallowed ground to us. Like an oasis in a desert is a bookstore in a busy city centre. You can hush the world for a while by stepping through its doors to a quiet, contemplative sanctuary. A bookstore is the one shop I always find myself hoping to go to, a welcome destination. You don't have to buy - you can happily browse. You will always find treasure. Many's a hard day of mine was softened by the serendipitous discovery of a poem by random selection in a bookshop. It feels like sustenance to drop into a bookstore amidst all other shops.

I could spend hours in a bookstore. I feel I among friends there, inanimate ones yes, but none the lesser. If you listen carefully, you can hear the whisperings of all the great authors on the shelves. It is instantly reviving. I remember who I am there, I remember lots of things I didn't know I'd forgotten. A bookstore is like a museum of life, a magic vault of information, an oasis of calm and certainty, of rapt attention on the world. Where else would you find such a place tell me? 

My favourite place at university was between the literature bookshelves of the library (the James Joyce library of UCD - right).  It was like a church, its many quiet cloisters and corners home to devoted students. The unique hush of an academic library engenders a sense of mighty awe so heady that every time I walked among these shelves the overwhelming feeling  I had was respect - here I was in the presence of greatness. I would often sit there on a stool, or the floor (students are flexible when it comes to reading positions) and wile away an hour browsing and reading. Not always for a pending assignment or the course reading list, just reading in a space precisely and piously made for that very act. In a church you kneel and pray, in a library, you kneel and read. 

Some of the books were like artifacts - old vellum yellowed velvet-to-the-touch pages and big musty dusty hardbacks that felt like holy relics to be handled with the utmost care. Here was a record I always thought, looking around at the towering shelves, hard copy proof, of the human race's attempt to interpret life for centuries. I often think, if ever extra terrestrials come to earth, surely they will be fascinated most by our hugely astonishing feat of noting down our behaviour, every aspect of it, in every way, from time untold in books? If they want to know about us, they have plenty of resources to plunder in libraries. No need for abductions and poking and prodding procedures. You want to know how humans live, who we are? Visit a library. Every iota of life is documented there. 

 

A true mark of a bibliophile I fear is ranking suitors in terms of whether they read or not.  I tried to explain this to a non-reading friend once, her mistakenly thinking it was a trite point, akin to the likes of a petty hobby mismatch. No, NO - reading is much much more than that. Unfortunately, my protests were an instant reaction heart's hyperbole, but now I'm much better equipped to define it. Books are props of life, not of pastimes. They are proof that their owner is someone wholly devoted to living life. To understanding it, delving into it, appreciating it. I will never back down from my prognosis that people who don't read are of a different species to those who do - not inferior, but different in soul structure.  

We fellow readers click better, albeit able to 'read' the other better. We vibrate on the same wavelength. We uphold the right and might of the imagination to transform reality's deadpan stalemate. We believe in stories. In narrative arcs, in subtexts, plot twists, thinking aloud and following our hearts. We talk the same talk. We walk the same meandering, keenly curious, sensitive walk through life. It's only fitting that a life partner is one you would want to match and communicate perfectly with? (Plus I would dearly like somebody with the ability of reading to me in older age.) Ergo, I don't date non-readers. Or, as Haruki Murakami puts it:

To qualify as a bibliophile you must be in love with the physicality of a book. Check. I love the sight of books, I love the touch of of books, I especially love the smell of books - the old musty ones and the liquorice new shiny textbooks. That's why I don't and won't use Kindles. Maybe this is the difference betwen a reader and a true book-lover. For some avid readers, the book is merely an item on which the words are presented. They fold pages, spill coffee on them, sit on them, bend them, fling them, forget them. A Kindle is a happy reprieve to holiday book packing and everyday lugging. But where is the physical magic in a Kindle? A bland computer screen?! No ruffling pages, soft to the touch, imprinted with your thoughts as you turn them? I love that quote floating about Pinterest about how a book changes its appearance when read - it becomes fatter, the pages swollen somehow from absorbing the reader's self. It is as if the reader has breathed life into it and left a little of it there in the process. 
 
No Kindles for me. I love holding a real book in my hands, the hills and valleys of the pages read and to come, the suspense of turning the page, the font, the smell, the feel of the book as it moulds itself to my grip. I love stopping every once in a while to look at the cover and the blurbs, run my fingers over it. I love skimming back to favourite passages, underlining them, sticking a bookmark proudly in a page to mark the achievement of the day. A book's personality is present in its physical make-up, to reduce it to a screen is an act of sabotage. In this digital age would it not be wise to retain something of the traditional mores? An object that has been in existence for years and so carefully wrought? Would the Book of Kells have been so meticulously laboured over if it was to be displayed on a Kindle? Would you rather read Shakespeare on a clinical Times New Roman font screen or a hand-printed vellum edition where the ink has bled into the page, accentuating the heartfelt sentiment of his lovelorn sonnets and making every line resonant with longing? A book is for life, for adorning shelves as it does your mind, a beautiful bundle of art; a Kindle is for a plane ride or a pocket, a bland mechanical package. Tough choice.

And finally I know I qualify for bibliophile status because I see books as friends. As my collection grows I rarely part with old books to make room for the new.  It's like giving away a friend the betrayal is so tangible. I love to be surrounded by books, read and unread ones. They're like insulation I suppose. Against a callous, indifferent world, an empty surrounding. Books beg to differ you see. Books say: everything matters. There are narratives everywhere and everyone is a story unfolding. They fill life with a bustling significance. Books in a home are a must. Who needs wallpaper or carpet even for that matter when you can line every bare space with them? A sanctum of knowledge at your fingertips. Portals to other worlds at every step. 

Other characteristics of a bibliophile: I get very excited when conversation turns to books. I get over-excited at the mere mention of books in general. I religiously read book reviews. I'm addicted to Goodreads. I have an ever-expanding Pinterest board on reading, some of the pins I've shared with you here (Books & Reading if you're interested.) I love quoting from books regularly. I love chattering with people who read. I feel a soul connection to people who share the same favourite books as me. I love sharing and swapping books with fellow readers. I love recommending books. I see a new rave-reviewed book release as an event, a visit to the bookstore as an adventure and Amazon as a wish-granting genie. I find people reading in public to be one of the most attractive, rebellious, eloquent sights ever. I dream of owning a bookstore. I dream of owning more books. Of a home library with levels and ladders. Oh and of course, of one day writing a book, or a few, the way I suppose some people dream of getting married. Yeah, that would be a nice happy ever after. 

 

How about you? Any dear bibliophiles care to share your hysteria? Please do! 

Stay tuned for more book blogs, especially now that we are in the season of reading. 



~Siobhán 

World Book Day: A Book Lover's Mix of Pics

It's World Book Day today, hurray! And to celebrate books and reading, instead of me rambling on (again), I thought I'd post a few pictures that say it all in relation to reading and book lovers. I had a chuckle at some of these, and agree wholeheartedly with them all! Enjoy.

Happy reading,

Siobhán