“There’s more to life than books you know?” (Part Ten)

I’m a devourer of books, as my family will testify. My house is full of bookshelves, and I can’t think that this will ever change. My favourite place to be is in a second hand book-shop, they have that peculiarly comforting smell. I’m sure there’s a really dull scientific description of this smell….something to do with chemical reactions and deterioration of paper, but I prefer to think if it as the smell of the words hugging you. Oh yes, it’s sentimental blog time today. My first book, and one that I still treasure is “Shadow the Sheep-Dog” by Enid Blyton. First published in 1942, it tells a series of short tales of a boy called Johnny, who lives on a farm and raises a puppy called Shadow. It is my earliest memory of the wonder of books. My Father used to read this to me when he felt able to. I have the copy he used to read from still, and it is really the only possession I think I have that binds us in any way. This is what books and songs mean to me, and perhaps explains a lot.

I had a dog when I was a tiny boy. I don’t really remember anything about him, other than that huge overwhelming feeling of love that a dog encompasses. When my parents separated, the dog went too. I craved a dog for the rest of my life, and the gaps where we didn’t have one were always darker. Shadow was my dog. I lived on that farm every night when I read the book, I fell asleep dreaming of Haystacks, and the fun that me and Shadow would have. He was real, and the world that Enid Blyton created was real too. Perhaps someone better qualified than me could comment about the literary value of her writing…I cannot. It goes way beyond that.

I picked the book from the shelf today, and read the first few pages, and the voice is always my Fathers. My love of reading, the written word, and imagination traces back directly to this book, and I suppose I have him to thank for that, at least.

So there’s not much else to say. My last choice (For now) of books is not a great book, in fact, I’m not sure that’s it’s not awful. It means the world to me though, and I suppose that is the point isn’t it? I can’t read this book without getting unnecessary with tears. When my girls were little, I tried so hard to read it to them, but just couldn’t do it. It was all a little too much. That’s the beauty of the written word though isn’t it? It doesn’t matter too much about the quality, but the feelings the words evoke, and the strength of emotion that they provoke, so from that perspective, this is the greatest book in the world.

I’ve enjoyed doing these, and I shall almost certainly be kicking myself when I think of other books that I should have added. Perhaps I will.