![]() ![]() We collect them, decorate with them, are inspired by them, and treat our books as sacred objects. But some of us surround ourselves with books. Call it heart-breaking episodes of lesson well learnt, but our home library, boasting of a physical collection numbering in the four figures is strictly for personal consumption.Īs people grow older, they shed their beloved books for new ones. Nor do I allow anyone the privilege to browse my shelves. Once they’ve entered my home, that is where they shall remain. I refuse to lend, sell, or discard any of my books. My reading tastes have evolved since, but one thing has remained. A couple of years ago, we moved our entire collection of fiction into a new set of shelves and I was delighted to flip the pages of those first storybooks. As I grew older, so did the number of books, as did the bookshelves in which they were stored. ![]() Every day, I’d grab them from the low shelf of the white cabinet with its pull-out writing table (which had a tendency to fall open on my head) and read them with my mother. My earliest memory of reading books is from when I was a toddler and had a stack of large-format Hans Christian Andersen tales in thin paperbacks. ![]() Do you remember the first book you read and your first bookshelf where you stored it? ![]()
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