‘there are books…which take rank in our life with parents and lovers and passionate experiences’ - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Restoring a sense of self: the ultimate booklist
The true test of a great book collection is when it needs to be replaced. You’re probably imagining the worst – fire on a household scale – but on this occasion my loss was entirely self-inflicted. A case of selling all my worldly possessions in an attempt to fund the latest in a series of overseas adventures. It didn’t hurt as much as one might have expected – at least in the beginning. Looking ahead to travels far and wide (and an expensive plane ticket), I boldly declared it worth the sacrifice.
Early editions of the first ten Famous Five with luscious dustjackets intact, the complete works of E.M. Forster, Jane Austen, Margaret Atwood, Truman Capote, J.D. Salinger. The journals of Katherine Mansfield slyly shelved alongside those of Virginia Woolf. Delightful illustrated editions of Wind in the Willows, Alice and Wonderland and Gillian Avery. Bad Jelly The Witch. A red leather and gilt dime-a-dozen but no less dear Works of Shakespeare, John Donne with its unwritten inscription on my heart, Henry Miller and Anais Nin, Helene Hanff and other assorted literary-related miscellany. Tales of Picasso and Françoise. The Brontes. Harry Potter x7. Lessons of childhood, university, adult life and love. WHAT WAS I THINKING?
The pain really kicked in on my return from walkabout. Empty shelves stared back at me accusingly and my booklover’s heart sank like a stone. I had, however, underestimated the pleasure in store: not only the delectable task of writing out my wish list, but months of purposeful secondhand book-hunting lay ahead. Any lovely inexpensive edition will do, and there will of course be some recently (belatedly) ‘discovered’ greats to add. Everything Ian McEwan, Paul Auster and Jeanette Winterson for starters.
Despite being a secondhand bookdealer in a former life, I’ve never been seduced by the addiction of collecting. I suppose any self-respecting book collector would never find themselves in my current bookless state. I have perused and purchased (on behalf) enough personal libraries to know that many books ‘collected’ are rarely thumbed and often never read. It is the thrill of the hunt, the glory of acquisition and the prospect of boasting about such exploits among fellow bibliophiles that fuels the addiction of many a collector. Money helps, as does a sympathetic spouse. I know of collectors who have been obliged to buy second properties merely to house their ever-expanding collection. All this simply goes against my nature; acquisition for the sake of ownership, and owning books that are too valuable to actually read are concepts I shall never embrace.
My recent need rather stems from having lost a sense of self. These are books I read every year or two, and that meet all manner of needs by being merely a few paces away. They are worlds I hold close to my heart, treasures that echo my questions and accompany me on the journey for answers, and are timeless in their ability to do so as I reread them at all ages. I am simply lost without them, and as such I shall be ‘Gone Book Hunting’ for quite some time to come.
