Books are a pleasure that I like to revel in. From a young age I loved to read. My Mum taught me to read before I went to school, and it’s a love that has never faded.
I remember having a bookshelf above my bed, and I was very proud of all the books I had on that small shelf. I dusted them all regularly, and read them often. One day I asked my Dad for a larger shelf, as there was not enough room to accommodate my growing collection.
With my pocket money I regularly bought new books, and could easily read a book in a day, if not twice a day. I was a regular customer at the local bookshop. I would traverse the shelves upon shelves of books lining the walls, and the shelves between. Goodness knows how long I would do that for. But rarely would I leave without a new purchase.
I had a full collection of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books, as well as collection of Trebizon books. Little Women, What Katy Did, and a host of others adorned this little shelf of mine. I loved them, and they never failed me. I looked after them carefully and they gave me the utmost pleasure in return.
Now I have a bookcase for a far larger collection of books, mainly which are non-fiction. Each one has a purpose. I don’t buy them because they’re pretty. They are not for decorative purposes. I genuinely feel sorry for those that do keep them to be purely looked at. Open them. Read them. You might be surprised.
These days I am more likely to buy second-hand books. New books are great, but old books speak to me like someone looking for a friend. There are gems among them too. Who knows what you will find in corners of used-book shops, or on library shelves. The stories that lie beneath the covers are there to be found. Age has beauty. Age has wisdom. And they are bound in old covers waiting to be opened. An old world, a new discovery.
My dream has been to own a used-book shop. I can’t think of something that would give me greater pleasure than to be surrounded by decades, or hundreds, of years of writing. With these books, one can see how the world has changed, or still remains the same. We are still able to connect with their contents, written by people who are long gone, yet are still with us in this unique way.
It’s doubtful that my dream will come true. My health is such that I don’t have the physical ability to deal with a full-time job. It’s a shame. But I console myself with my own books, building a structure of knowledge and enjoyment.
I had two ‘new’ second-hand books arrived today. Why waste the pleasures of yesterday just because tomorrow brings something new?
This article was originally published on Medium.
Charlotte Clark 