Can't Live Without Books

For the past 34 years, I’ve been a member of a Ladies' Evening Book Club. I rarely miss a meeting and can't wait to see the new books; I'm in love with them. I adore my friends, but I can’t do without the books. The scent of the paper makes me swoon.

My love of stories and books began in childhood; my parents read to us and introduced us to this addiction. Both my parents loved reading, so we always had many books in our house. My paternal grandfather even collected first editions and Africana; he had a proper library with buttoned leather chairs and heavy curtains. My Granny was a ferocious reader, and I can’t imagine her ever not having a book on her lap, even when she was old and forgetful. In fact, she read the same first paragraph of a John le Carré for years.

My best friend and I played “library-library” at her house. I couldn’t wait to visit and often wished to sleep over so I could spend two days of absolute bliss in our “library.” We’d collect books, catalogue them, and line them up on shelves. We'd take turns being the librarian. My favourite authors were Dr. Seuss, C.S. Lewis, and Alice in Wonderland, to name a few.

In Standard 3, I was shipped off to a small private boarding school near White River, very Colonial Old School, stiff upper lip. You know, croquet on the lawn, with parents floating around with glasses of gin and tonic (medicinal, of course), decked out in chiffon dresses and straw hats. What I loved more than anything was the library, with all those books to read and peruse. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the musty paper. After games in the afternoon, we’d lie out on the lawn and read, nibbling through our tuck boxes, then it was the Famous Five and Nancy Drew.

The books that made an impression on me in high school were “The Royal Box” by Frances Parkinson Keyes, my first adult book, “When the Lions Feed,” and three subsequent books by Wilbur Smith. Still, I later lost interest in him and have never returned to his work. I adored Jock of the Bushveld, initially because my brother shares the author’s name, Sir James Percy Fitzpatrick, and, of course, because we lived right on the Kruger National Park's fence. By 16, it was Lady Chatterley’s Lover and another unmentionable, which we found in the desk in the biology class.

After school, I went to work and read on the train. It was bliss because I was earning money to buy books, and there was a bookstore just around the corner from my workplace. By then, I was reading Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Solzhenitsyn, Ayn Rand, Michener, le Carré, Leon Uris, to name a few. My Granny encouraged me to read controversial books and bought me a copy of Caravans so I could go and become a free-spirited hippie in Morocco, but alas, I was too timid.  

It was during my first month living with my husband and baby in a new town that I was invited to join the book club. I’ve never regretted it. I made lasting friendships. In the early years, we would have tea and cake, but as we became bolder and more confident, we switched to wine and dinner, having loud, raucous discussions and solving the world’s problems. Here I found peace, joy, and comfort when times were tough. All four of my children were raised in a carry cot behind a couch in someone’s sitting room while we shared our love of books.

Once or twice, we tried discussing the books. Still, we found it put readers under too much pressure to perform, and we aimed to read as much as possible on a limited budget because books were heavily taxed in South Africa at the time; many were even banned or unavailable here due to sanctions.

I love gardening, cookery, and spiritual books. I love biographies, fiction, non-fiction, and travel books. I love my bridge books, my dictionaries, photographic books, old books, vintage books, new books, hardcovers, and paperbacks. If there’s one thing I regret, it is that I “donated” hundreds of books to the Church fete (not that I begrudge the Church or the people who bought them), but in doing so, I wiped out 30 years of reading and memories.

Some of my favourite books include: The Reader, Miss Smilla’s Sense of Snow, Chocolat, White Mischief, Dr. Zhivago, The English Patient, A Fine Balance, Anne Frank’s Diary, A Maharani Remembers, The Lightness of Being, and Sophie’s Choice. Someone said we all have our drug of choice; mine is books.

 I particularly enjoy Goodreads and the New York Times book review. When I’m traveling, the first place I visit is always a bookstore, even if it’s in the airport or train station. I’ve gone scouting for books in the most unlikely places in Africa, India, and Thailand. My favourite shops are second-hand bookstores or book exchanges, not that I’ll ever exchange a book. Oh, for the smell of a book. My children get books for Christmas and birthdays, or just for the hell of it, but I wish they’d read them. When I think of a wish list, I forget the jewellery and lingerie and end up with a list of books.

A backpack without books is a waste of time; that’s what they’re for, and an overweight one is a gift waiting to be opened once home.

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How things have changed in a decade. Now, algorithms know our tastes, likes, and dislikes and spoon-feed us with blogs, articles, and catch phrases about all the topics we are interested in on our mobile phones and social media pages. Conversations around a dining table can be fed to an algorithm, and before you know it, we’re swamped in advertisements and AI-driven information.

I often go to homes where there are no books on shelves or tabletops; it’s all on a tablet or device—the love of books was left to the surviving bookworms like me. I believe our lives are poorer for it.