Books
Books have a special magic. I was in the loft again the other day and there are boxes of books that simply haven’t got shelf space in my house. Some are sad and broken things, yellowed and stained, pages torn, held together with tape, torn apart by time. Long past readability. But they cannot be thrown out. Euthanasia for old people, sure. But not for books. And in there I found an old and worn copy of the hobbit. Lovingly I opened it and read the first page. And shuddered and slipped it back into the box.
I remember the pleasure of libraries. Not the modern trendy internet cafes of today. But the libraries of my youth. Big stern buildings with big stern librarians. Where you tiptoed in silence between the stacks. I remember my excitement when my mum explained that I could pick five books. Any five books. And take my library card to the desk and for a week they were mine. And the next week I could return them and get another five. I remember sneaking off to the adult section, awed by the sheer numbers of books, the huge weight of knowledge. I remember first stroking the leather spines of the encyclopaedia Britannica, the unique book smell, the promises of the new and unimaginable.
Then, with age came money. And bookshops. The science fiction shelves at Clarks, the joy of owning the complete lensman series. Lined up in order on my shelf. Waterstones, Smiths. Still I can become trapped for hours, held by their mysterious power. Better yet, second hand bookstores, where time is twisted and warped by the power of the books. The unusual and the unexpected. Old friends next to unheard of strangers. The strange pleasure in finding a ‘modern history of Malaysia’ written in 1940 and costing just 20p. And back to my own bookshelves. Perhaps bookshelf is to grand as they are just piles of bricks and planks. The books are unsorted, unordered, stacked horizontally and vertically, but best of all, 2 deep. So when you remove a book you discover another book. And some are old friends, that you can open at random and enjoy for a brief moment. Some just have wonderful titles that resonate (Gibbons. Decline and fall of the roman empire. Abridged). Some taunt me (the bookmarker remains static a third of the way into the Iliad. The Oddessy remains unread). And some are dreadful. The fat science fantasy with the promise ‘comparable to the lord of the rings’ on the cover that really means derivative trash.
The lord of the rings. I first read it when I was twelve. It gave me nightmares. Then every Easter until my late 20’s I read it again. Appendices and all. On occasion I even reproduced the maps and expanded them, adding hidden realms of my own. I have been struggling to fill in the favourite books section on my blogger profile. I have decided to limit myself to just five books. Its proving a long and arduous process. It makes Sophie’s choice look pretty simple. But surely Lord of the rings is in. What other book has given me so much pleasure? But no, its out.
Why? Well it started with the films. I loved the first two and a half films. Ok, so they lacked the weight of history that makes the book so good, but they compensated with a wonderful geographic splendour. The were magnificent. Then came the last hour. Was I truly the only person who had to drive their nails into the palm of their hands. Who had to seriously fight to prevent myself from standing up and crying aloud ‘just die you little fuckers’ as Sam and Frodo ground up the mountain. Then it ended. Then it ended again. And again. Even the boat sailing off into the sunset WAS NOT THE FRIGGING END. As surely as the first two and a half films deserved their plethora of Oscars that last hour should have resulted in the director being flayed alive. But even that didn’t ruin the book. I returned to it, Opened it. It was ok. The magic was still there. I could recover.
Then the other day I was at the weird librarians blog and they mentioned that last film. And they used the phrase ‘Gay midget porn’. And I was in the loft, and I found the Hobbit. And as I read the first page that phrase came back to haunt me. ‘Gay midget porn’. And I shuddered and put the book back in the box.
I remember the pleasure of libraries. Not the modern trendy internet cafes of today. But the libraries of my youth. Big stern buildings with big stern librarians. Where you tiptoed in silence between the stacks. I remember my excitement when my mum explained that I could pick five books. Any five books. And take my library card to the desk and for a week they were mine. And the next week I could return them and get another five. I remember sneaking off to the adult section, awed by the sheer numbers of books, the huge weight of knowledge. I remember first stroking the leather spines of the encyclopaedia Britannica, the unique book smell, the promises of the new and unimaginable.
Then, with age came money. And bookshops. The science fiction shelves at Clarks, the joy of owning the complete lensman series. Lined up in order on my shelf. Waterstones, Smiths. Still I can become trapped for hours, held by their mysterious power. Better yet, second hand bookstores, where time is twisted and warped by the power of the books. The unusual and the unexpected. Old friends next to unheard of strangers. The strange pleasure in finding a ‘modern history of Malaysia’ written in 1940 and costing just 20p. And back to my own bookshelves. Perhaps bookshelf is to grand as they are just piles of bricks and planks. The books are unsorted, unordered, stacked horizontally and vertically, but best of all, 2 deep. So when you remove a book you discover another book. And some are old friends, that you can open at random and enjoy for a brief moment. Some just have wonderful titles that resonate (Gibbons. Decline and fall of the roman empire. Abridged). Some taunt me (the bookmarker remains static a third of the way into the Iliad. The Oddessy remains unread). And some are dreadful. The fat science fantasy with the promise ‘comparable to the lord of the rings’ on the cover that really means derivative trash.
The lord of the rings. I first read it when I was twelve. It gave me nightmares. Then every Easter until my late 20’s I read it again. Appendices and all. On occasion I even reproduced the maps and expanded them, adding hidden realms of my own. I have been struggling to fill in the favourite books section on my blogger profile. I have decided to limit myself to just five books. Its proving a long and arduous process. It makes Sophie’s choice look pretty simple. But surely Lord of the rings is in. What other book has given me so much pleasure? But no, its out.
Why? Well it started with the films. I loved the first two and a half films. Ok, so they lacked the weight of history that makes the book so good, but they compensated with a wonderful geographic splendour. The were magnificent. Then came the last hour. Was I truly the only person who had to drive their nails into the palm of their hands. Who had to seriously fight to prevent myself from standing up and crying aloud ‘just die you little fuckers’ as Sam and Frodo ground up the mountain. Then it ended. Then it ended again. And again. Even the boat sailing off into the sunset WAS NOT THE FRIGGING END. As surely as the first two and a half films deserved their plethora of Oscars that last hour should have resulted in the director being flayed alive. But even that didn’t ruin the book. I returned to it, Opened it. It was ok. The magic was still there. I could recover.
Then the other day I was at the weird librarians blog and they mentioned that last film. And they used the phrase ‘Gay midget porn’. And I was in the loft, and I found the Hobbit. And as I read the first page that phrase came back to haunt me. ‘Gay midget porn’. And I shuddered and put the book back in the box.
posted by Old Man Rich at 9:33 AM
5 Comments:
DVDs are better
Only if your an illiterate monkey.
You are by far not alone. I liked the flicks enough I guess, even though all that Goblins and Cocksuckers stuff isn't really my thing, but the way it ended was one of the most painful cinematic experiences I ahve ever had. And to think, the die hard nerds bitched that it should have been at least an hour or two longer to get in all the goodbye's. Jesus Fuck I would have killed them for that. Until later...
By the way, the way you described your love for books was some of the most beautiful writing I have ever read on a blog to date. Ever read at all actually. Good stuff, Rich.
Which five books did make the list?
Still a job in progress. But I have set myself a time limit of sunday.
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