Books, I cant live without them. Be it a wintry afternoon, a rainy morning, a sultry dusk, a valentine evening, I need readables! I have realized that if there has been anything that has remained the same, it is my love for books. Maybe, the tastes have changed. Shelves where the Blyton, Cristie and Doyle once ruled were taken over by Kafka, Camus and Sartre. While the perambulatory train journeys warranted paperbacks, the morning walks were okay with The Telegraph. There was a book for every occasion I partook, every class I missed, every meeting I avoided, every phone call I evaded. And for each piece of furniture there was one too: the coffee table journal, the monitor-top jargon-breakers, the armchair hardbounds, and the under-pillow sleepovers.
Books have been said to be the lonely man’s best friend. They give company for hours at large, they exchange ideas, create dreams and images to seek refuge in. Like friends they make us forget or sorrows and share our joys. Like friends they take us to their own world of daydreams.
Nevertheless, books unlike friends, can be ignored at will, and taken seriously at others. They can be thrown around, dog-eared, torn apart and lost. Books can be read, appreciated at times or denounced at the others (sometimes the same book!), forgotten or re-read. Books can be bought and sold, disposed of, lent, borrowed, and donated. Unlike friends, there is no love lost, no pains of separation. I can always go back and pick it up from a dusty shelf, and start over anew, anytime I want.