Honest Confessions of a Bibliophile
Also a contemplation and a self-introspection
In school, I had written a disclaimer for all the people who desired to borrow my books. It read as follows:-
This book is the prized property of Vinshu Jain. It is to be, in no circumstances, tampered, toyed, or defaced with. The esteemed borrower is required to comply with the following rules and regulations, failing which, he/she shall attract a strict penalty which includes a fine of Rs. 100 along with a brand new copy of the same book.
The book is to be opened at an angle of 90° or less.
Dog-earing of pages is strictly prohibited.
No page is to be folded, crimped, curled, or ruffled.
Licking of fingers to allow for easy turning of pages is an absolute no.
No crease marks should appear on any pages, including the front and back cover.
No visible fingerprints should develop on any pages, including the front and back cover.
Spillage of edibles or non- edibles, pastes, liquids etc. on any of the pages, including the front and back cover will not be tolerated.
It is highly recommended to cover the book with a newspaper while reading as an additional precaution.
The book should be in the exact same state at the time of return as it was at the time of lending. The owner expects the borrower to sincerely abide by the rules.
Happy reading!
I know what you are thinking. How pretentious and obnoxious is that! The disclaimer is outrageous and not at all in good spirits. Well, this was the extent of my attachment to my books. They were (and still are) my most prized material possessions.
I don’t exactly remember when I became a bibliophile but I have vivid memories of eagerly waiting for that one day in the week (Yes just one!) when we were allowed to borrow books from the school library. I made full use of that day. Sometimes, I’ll borrow a book in the morning, finish it by lunch-time, and then borrow another one for the rest of the week.
I remember finishing the entire stack of Nancy Drew books. Even for my birthday each year, I asked my parents the same gift — three books of my choice. They actually got fed up one time and got me a surprise gift instead (a hairstyling gadget which lies unused to this day).
Books were an escape route for an introverted person like me. I found solace and peace in fictional characters and acceptance in fictional worlds.
I would spend hours locked up inside my room, reading novel after novel, and it sure irked my parents a great deal. I would get so engrossed in the book that I would become oblivious to my immediate surroundings. I would get completely sucked into the imaginary fictional realm.
But I couldn’t help it. You see, I lacked stage talents such as singing, dancing, and acting and was a terrible artist. I wasn’t great in sports either (perhaps due to my petite figure).
Reading was the only hobby that came naturally to me and the one I enjoyed so much. It brought peace to my mind, provided me a warm and fuzzy feeling, and most importantly, made me happy.
I didn’t want it to be snatched away from me and thus I held on to it as a child holds on to his favorite candy. Not to forget the intoxicating smell of new books — more profound than that of wet mud, white-wash paint, and petrol — that never failed to uplift my mood.
Luckily for me, some of my closest friends were also paperback aficionados like me. And thus I absolutely savored the animated conversations we had on death of a beloved character, controversial endings, and interesting pieces of fan-fiction doing the rounds of the Internet. We had heated debates on whether a particular character’s actions were justified or whether a particular character deserved the ending it got.
I really think books, and fiction in particular, gave a huge impetus to my creative thinking process. I would cook up my own alternate scenarios and imagine ludicrous situations.
Also, because I read the book first and then watched its on-screen adaptation, I would always picture how the characters will be portrayed on the big screen and would even mouth some of the dialogues for extra effect.
Since my friends were equally possessive of their books, the shared paranoia regarding the upkeep of the treasured paperbacks deepened our friendship and the act of lending and borrowing books brought us closer.
Libraries and bookstores are my favorite public places on earth. Even a casual walk through them becomes a relaxing and soothing experience. To be in the midst of this vast cornucopia of knowledge is truly humbling.
Pardon me for being dramatic, but I think time stops when I am inside a library or a bookstore. I never want to leave but just want to gaze at all the beautiful books with a child-like curiosity wondering what lessons, quirks, and anecdotes each one beholds.
I think about the dedication, commitment, and the immense amount of patience that these authors possess. Writing a full-fledged book requires a truck-load of persistence and the ability to think ahead. The art of weaving stories, developing characters, contextualizing situations, amplifying emotions, and conceiving elaborate plot-lines is as complex as it sounds.
The books I actively seek out and choose to read are an integral part of my extended self. Each book I read either contributes to my enhanced understanding of the complexities of this world or introduces me to novel concepts and theories or makes me aware of the eccentricities and idiosyncrasies of the human race.
The singularity, incommutability, tangibility, and irreplaceability of each book make it personalized and priceless. I have strong memories attached to each one of them and every time I see them on my shelves, I recollect past experiences that settle more permanently in my conscience.
These books serve as markers for my individual memories and also as cues for others to form an impression of me. In the words of Russell Belk — a Professor at Schulich School of Business, York University — “Both the objects we preserve and the memories associated with them are described as self-enhancing and nostalgic.
The self is expected to continually change over the life course, and certain material possessions are seen as prominent among the objects anchoring an individual’s or group’s memories of such change. Inevitably it is not simply facts but emotions that are found to be cued by these objects.”
For me, these objects are books. Right from zeroing in on the next book to read, deciding whether to buy it or borrow it, reading it, reflecting on the acquired wisdom and revelations, to finally placing it strategically in my own personal library is like a ritual for me that brings me a strange sense of satisfaction.
I’ll conclude with this beautiful quote by Haruki Murakami, my favorite author.
“With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw its fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy. ”
Having said that, the aura of paperbacks and hardcovers still beckons me and keeps me grounded and anchored to my individual identity. I don’t think e-books will ever elicit the same emotions in me or inspire the same feverish passion of collecting and immortalizing physical books.
