To me, as essential as air and water. I love books, love the idea of books, love to be surrounded by books. I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t read. Although my parents both left school at fourteen, they were by no means unschooled: every home I can remember was always filled with bookcases and books, and I read – no, devoured – them voraciously. For many years, my preferred reading was a single volume encyclopedia, and recently I tracked down a copy, and oh ! suddenly I was nine again. The Adventure books of Willard Price were another staple, as were Gerald Durrell’s. Oddly, very little Enid Blyton.
Naturally, as I grew older my range of reading expanded and I discovered the joys of Orwell, Verne, Fleming (Peter, not Ian), Hemingway and science fiction, notably Clarke, Bradbury and Asimov, and so, so many more now forgotten but re-read and cherished at the time. Even today, I much prefer a physical book: the weight, the feel and above all the smell of the paper. Kindle is employed only if that’s the only economical way of getting hold of something. Of late I’ve begun tracking down some books that were last over the years – literally re-collecting.
Books inform me, in all senses. They thrill and move me, amuse, amaze, delight and provoke me. In a very real sense, my reading and the books I’ve read have shaped my life, made me the person I am today. I simply cannot imagine a world, a life without them.
