You see I am addicted to books (Boden dresses / pilgrim jewellery / ribbons) I find it incredibly difficult to walk out of a bookshop empty handed, especially a proper bookshop (although Tesco now offers some degree of competition) So I find that I collect books, picked in the main because of the quality of their covers. I know the old adage is to "never judge a book by it's cover" but I am very superficial and I do. The first thing that attracts me is the artwork, followed by the title, followed by the presence of a sticker (Richard and Judy's book club guaranteed purchase, while Galaxy and Costa Coffee awards merit closer inspection) An author I've enjoyed normally also ensures investment.
I love books. I love how they look on bookshelves. I love how the smell. I love the smooth, quality card of the cover. I love the feeling of cracking the spine on a new paperback and feeling how far I've gotten into the book as the spine wrinkles and ages as I read. I love folding a page corner before I go to sleep.
I can give a book away if I've read it and enjoyed it. If I've loved it, it must stay forever. Perhaps in the attic where, although I can't see it, I am comforted by it's presence should I ever need it again. So you see, I could use a "kindle" but I could never love it. It just isn't the same...it isn't really reading a book. You absorb the same knowledge, but you miss the connection with the book....the relationship.
I am doing my best to pass this addiction on to Beatrice. She does seem to love books too.
Anyway, back to Binchy. This book passion means that I have a bookshelf filled with "to be reads". When you start a new book you are never quite sure what it's going to be like. Will it deliver it's promise, or will it disappoint? There is always a risk. It could be the next "Prayer for Owen Meaney" or "Night train to Lisbon". The former I enjoyed, forced myself through in parts and when I reached the conclusion thought "Wow" and read it over again immediately. The latter I detest. It is trying to to defeat me....I have been reading it for over a year...a paragraph at a time...I will finish it, but I may be very old when I do. With Maeve, she is so formulaic that I know exactly what I'm getting. I know I will cosy up with completely believable characters that I will care about, I will start to speak with a softer Irish accent and I will love every paragraph of the book. Her books feel snug, comfy, homelike. So I keep her books as a gift to myself. I will read most of the to be reads and then, when I feel the need, I will crack open the new MB and indulge myself in pure, unbridled reading pleasure.
I know they aren't academic or high brow....but they are escapism, relaxing and jolly good reads. I love them and I firmly believe that enjoyment is what reading is about.
I have just spent the afternoon in bed finishing off a Cathy Kelly. She has a bit of Maeve about her and I am delighted to spot another of her books on the to be read shelf. But to conclude, I shall include her life lessons....
"Be kind to other women. It really works - most of the time. And even on those days when it doesn't, it'll make you feel better inside. And on the outside, actually! Because spite carves out things in your soul and it carves out things on your face too, the sort of lines that dermatologists say are from the sun or smoking, and are really from spite."
"When you're annoyed, don't speak from that place inside yourself that nurtures all past hurts. That will just make it all worse. Speak out of love and a desire to make things better."
"Sometimes you can't fix it. Other people, for example; you can't fix them. You just have to decide whether it's worth hanging around until they fix themselves - or if it's worth hanging around even though they may never decide to fix themselves."
"Get down on your knees every day and say thank you. Even if you don't feel grateful all the time, practice it, and one day you will appreciate all the good things."
So today, despite a runny nose I am thankful for a handsome husband, a spirited daughter who loves little more than singing in the rain and jumping in muddy puddles.
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