Read, Read, Read! - theHumm January 2020

Read, Read, Read! - theHumm January 2020

By John Pigeau

 I confess: I own many, many books. Possibly more books than I can read in a lifetime. But I love, cherish and adore books, so I’ll never stop buying them. They bring me joy. They teach me things. They offer me comfort. They have even, I will venture, saved my life. And they ask for nothing back.

It’s not even a resolution I need to make: to continue to fill my shelves with more books in this shiny new year. I can unapologetically assure you — it will simply happen.

Recently, during the holidays, I had three good friends over for a music night (we play guitars and harmonicas, we sing with passion, we get silly; we talk and laugh with verve, letting loose for a while, forgetting our woes and worries), and one of my friends said to me, “I just noticed, Johnny, you have the same book in every room in your place.”

He would be one to notice such a thing; he’s a bestselling author. He’s won the Governor General’s Award for Poetry. His books of fiction and poetry have been translated into ten languages. He’s also a fiction reviewer for the New York Times Book Review. 

So, I said “huh,” and gave that a bit of think.

Steve was referring to the book Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and he was right. I keep a copy in my washroom, another on a night table in my bedroom, one in the kitchen prominently displayed on a shelf with other things that remind me of time spent by the lake, and one on an end table in the living room. Each is a different edition, so each has a different cover. And I love them all. 

“I love that book,” I told Steve, with not a trace of guilt. “It’s filled with gentle, fresh, clear-minded wisdom. Whenever I see a copy — at a library book sale, in a second-hand shop — I buy it. I feel compelled to. Normally, I end up giving them as gifts.”

That night, in fact, I’d given a copy to my friend Ginger, whose birthday we were celebrating; she was quite delighted by the gift. 

Earlier in the fall I’d spent ten nights on a writing retreat at a quiet, lovely, utterly charming little cottage in Wellington, Ontario — one block from the lake — and I’d given a copy of the book to my friends who owned the place as a “thank you” present. That one I’d bought new from my local indie, on a whim, just before I’d left home — what better gift for a couple who live near Lake Ontario, and love spending time in the lake and on the beach? Before I left for home, both Rebecca and Stew thanked me for the book and told me how much they’d enjoyed it. 

Giving books as a gift, I believe, is a form of genuine affection. Like a lasting hug. And what more meaningful gift than a book? 

But all this coming from me should perhaps be taken with a grain of salt — I once owned a bookshop, after all. Started it from scratch, and it’s still going strong, I’m very happy to say. I’m an author, too. I read voraciously. I’m still a bookseller at heart. And yes, maybe a bit of a book hoarder, too.

But I’ve recently learned, and quite happily so, there is a Japanese word for the practice of buying more books than you can read — tsundoku. The word “hoarder” is fairly abrasive, really. This Japanese word is rather its poetic antithesis. 

So, what’s the value of owning more books than you can read? 

In short, the value is limitless.

I’ve researched this subject to a degree, and there are many other good theories out there, but that conclusion is my own. You see, when I walk around my home and pluck a book from its spot on a shelf, it occurs to me that my apartment is like a library. Even if I don’t read all the books I own, they exist and they’re within arm’s length — and within each book is a unique story, or a series of valuable insights and lessons, and sometimes sheer poetry, when essentially the lessons are yours alone to arrive at. That I own these books reflects my wish to read them, and by extension, to feel more joy, to learn more about the world and the people around me, to take comfort in the solace of shared experiences.

I have a weakness for library book sales; I visit them at least once a week, and very rarely leave empty-handed. Second-hand bookshops too — I can’t pass one without stopping in. Normally I leave with a gem or two. I frequent my local independent bookshop, too, where they know me well, and where I spend a fair amount of my disposable income. 

I’ve also bought a lot of books there for research on a book I’m writing, a personal account of mental illness and the unexpected end of my marriage, which plunged me into a serious, almost suicidal depression and resulted in years of near-constant anxiety and agonizing grief. 

I can honestly say that a stack of books I’ve read on the subjects of grief and depression have changed my thinking, and my life, for the better. In particular, I’m thinking fondly of A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis, Darkness Visible by William Styron, Levels of Life by Julian Barnes, and Camilla Gibb’s This is Happy.

When my depression was severe, these books helped me. I was reading for insight, and for answers, really. I was reading for comfort, too. And I was reading to know I was not alone. On good days, I could read fiction — which on the worst of days seemed trivial and frivolous, unrelated to me — and I enjoyed the kind, gentle people and worlds created by Anne Tyler, among others.

No one book took a bullet for me. Yet I can confidently say, a small stack of them saved my life. At the very least, they saw me through the wilderness.

I hope the book I’m working on diligently might do the same for someone else, down the line.

The truth is also this: we don’t know what books may touch us so beautifully and profoundly. Perhaps there exists a book on one of my shelves, yet unopened by me, that will offer me further joy, comfort or wisdom. Or maybe I’ve yet to bring that title home. So I’ll keep up my practice tsundoku this year. With hope, joy, curiosity and gratitude. 

Perhaps you will too. 

I wish you happy reading, and book collecting, in the new year.