Bibliophilic sensibilities.

Webster’s dictionary defines bibliophile (n) as a lover of books especially for qualities of format; also a book collector. Both parts of the definition easily apply to me. The term almost sounds a little obscene when you mull over the consonants and extend the vowels. It’s true. I am a self-professed bibliophile. There is no denying or hiding the fact that I absolutely LOVE books. My dear 12 year old son says, “Nerd alert!” whenever I gush about an author or a book that I’ve read or am in the midst of reading. I’ve tried to foster an enjoyment of reading and appreciation for literature in both my children. They like to read but aren’t as manic about it as their mother. It’s a good thing as we’d probably have a collection of books in this house that would rival any episode of “Hoarders”.

I love the smell of old books and the weight and feel of a much loved book in my hands. I enjoy digging into a new book and getting to know the characters. I enjoy my Kindle which enables me to get a new book at the click of a button. (The Kindle was my dear husband’s attempt to get me to “downsize” my book collection.) Ha! The laugh is on him as any dreams he might have had in that regard were diminished as soon as those gift cards were linked to my Amazon account. Bookshelves bursting at the seams and a Kindle nearing storage capacity, there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight to how many books I need in my life.

There is something comforting about curling up or sitting back with a book. Books of quotations provide wisdom and wit when I may need it. The Bible provides answers to questions big and small or when the meaning of life might be called into question. My dog- eared copy of E.B. White's Charlotte’s Web whisks me back to a simpler time. Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s reminds me of how a movie classic can be as good as the book from which it was based. Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird is a testimony to great literature and undoubtedly one of my favourite books of all time. Works like John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars proves that not all newer authors produce rubbish. (50 Shades of Grey, anyone?) Elie Wiesel’s Night fragments my heart into little shards every time I read the harrowing testimony of the living hell millions of people endured. Sylvia Plath’s semi-autobiographical The Bell Jar never ceases to amaze me with the brilliance of an author and her slow descent into madness. Salinger, Hemingway, Atwood, Steinbeck, Laurence, Bradbury, Ondaatje, Choy, and Frost are but a handful of authors who have made an indelible mark on me. I could easily fill pages with my ramblings about my favourite authors or on books that matter. That’ll be for another time. I have no real preference for biographies, novellas, novels, fiction, non-fiction, sci-fi, classics, modern, post-modernism, short stories, poetry, or drama. This is really just the tip of the iceberg as I enjoy and read a huge variety of genres.

I’ve laughed and cried with countless protagonists. I’ve agonized over conflicts and wept at endings – both happy and otherwise. I’ve daydreamed about living in decades apart from my own. I’ve envisioned and lived in futures well beyond my time. Pages at my finger tips and wood pulp moving through my veins, I cannot help but love the written word and connect with the author and their works. I’ve lived a thousand lives through the pages of the books I’ve read.