Bøker berserker

I started work in a university library a couple of years ago. At that time, I promised myself that would be the end of my book acquisition days and that I would become a borrower of books, rather than an owner. However, it’s not that simple. Book ownership is a sensory experience. It engages all of one’s senses.

You enter a bookshop. You are overwhelmed by the sight of the crisp pages, packaged perfectly in their binding and jackets. Unsullied. You pick one up and feel the pleasant sensation of its weight in your hands as your finger tips carefully slide over the spine, the cover, the pages and assess the quality of the paper, the gsm, the typeface. You turn the pages slowly and then the scent of the paper gently rises until you can smell it and you get a little rush of endorphins. If no one is watching you bring the book to your face and inhale and put your ear to the book to hear the turning of the page, the slight sound of your fingers sliding across the paper. Your eyes become transfixed on the words. Those words which become sentences, and paragraphs and chapters taking you hostage into a new world. Those words with the ability to open up yet another door into the labyrinthine mind and transform it with their power. And you are hooked. You now belong to The Book. And nothing will ever be the same again.

It’s hard to part with a book. It’s the reason why I failed as a book borrower.  I want the relationship to continue; to have a permanent reminder of those ecstasy filled hours and days when we were absorbed in each other. Months later I’ll remember an eloquently constructed phrase and become obsessed with finding it again. To once again revel in the writer’s brilliance, marvel at her skill, admire her wordsmithery. I have an image of the words sitting three quarters of the way down a page about one third into the book. I must find it again. Now. It’s two o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. And so I go to the bookshelf and there it is, The Book, and I feel comforted in the knowledge that it sits securely surrounded by old oak. I pick it up. The weight has shifted, the pages soft, the spine pliable, and the scent has matured and I find the words I am seeking and I am soothed into slumber once again.