Moving Books

In my whole life up until now, the longest I have ever lived in the same place is six years. We lived in Kuantan, a coastal town in Malaysia for those years when I was in primary school, and I have just reached the same milestone here in Bombay. Which I guess makes Bombay as much my hometown as anywhere. Although if I had to choose one for sentimental reasons it would be Cooma in the Australian Snowy Mountains where I did most of my growing up. Physically at least.

Even during those longer periods of residence in the same town or city, I have always moved house at least once. We were renters while I was growing up, and this is the first time in my life I have lived in a house which didn't belong to landlords. It's kind of a strange concept to get used to. "What do you mean we can't move house? The toilet leaks!"

I'm starting to learn, finally, the possible benefits of not being a vagabond. Being able to hold onto my book collection being one of them. I'm not talking about an impressive library of leather-bound rarities. My books are mostly paperbacks, and while there are a few loved classics, many belong to the fantasy/SF genre. Of course the higher proportion of these may be because they always seem to come in trilogies - or series (so far I'm up to book 10 in the Malazan Book of the Fallen). So throwing out a single book often means sending two or more with it for company.

There's really no logical reason for me to be so attached to my books. Most of them I'll never read again. There are so many wonderful new books published all the time that there's little incentive to re-read anything. But occasionally I do. In between new books for example. When I find myself with nothing I haven't read in the house and no way to get to a bookstore quickly. That's when I discover some new meaning in 'Lord of the Rings' (shut up) or remind myself what it is Richard Dawkins is saying again. And then there are times when I'll just be in the mood for one of Haruki Murakami's short stories or a passage from 'Moby Dick' (nobody told me that book was so funny). And where would I be if I couldn't find them?

My mother, who had to move us from rented house to rented house, always managed to take our entire book collection with us. One of my earlier memories includes unpacking boxes of encyclopedias, and that wonderful papery smell of old books. Mum would no sooner have left one of her Asimovs or Bradburys behind than the family pet. Actually we did have to leave the family pets behind when we moved from Malaysia to Australia, but the books came.

So I guess when it comes down to it, what shelves full of books mean to me isn't just hours of entertainment and education. They mean home. They mean coming back to familiar characters and places no matter how unfamiliar actual surroundings. Seeing those spines and titles neatly lined up (or in my case in a chaotic jumble) gives me the sense of comfort some people get from artwork, or an old family sofa. So if a future move means I have to cull something, I guess it'll be my wardrobe. And maybe the 'childcare' books. Never read those anyway.