Does the way we acquire books have an impact on the way we read them? A lot has been written about the sentimentality surrounding books; cherished books from childhood, books given as love tokens, handed down from our parents, to our own children, the books that we would save from fires, and launch into space for aliens to read. But what about the sad stories? The books abandoned on park benches, collections inherited from a decreased friend, those sold off by libraries because no one wanted to read them, and the books that we scavenge when bookshops go bust?
I’m currently in that mood where I want to re-read old books but also read new books but also read old books that are new to me because I haven’t read them yet and I’m so overwhelmed by what I want to read that I’m not reading anything at all, you feel?
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
Books could be an incredible adventure. I stayed under my blanket and barely moved, and no one would have guessed how my mind raced and my heart soared with stories.
People need books, but they donβt know that they need them. Generally they are not aware that the books they need are in existence.
At no stage have campaigners against racism, sexism and class bias in books suggested that our entire vast heritage of childrenβs literature be discarded. That awesome body of books, however, asserts overall that only white people exist, only the middle class matter, and that boys will be boys and girls will be good.
She is always sitting with her little nose burrowing into books.
