Too Many Books?

I’ve grown up around books. There were floor to ceiling bookshelves in my Grandparent's farmhouse, and now they’ve been forced to downsize there are floor to ceiling in their terraced house, bookshelves full of books older than me, older than my parents, older than them. Books that have been read and re-read, loaned and passed down and loved, books full of memories.

In my parents house, again, there are floor to ceiling bookshelves of books, two or sometimes three books thick. There are books behind books, and books on top of books, books in cupboards, books under tables and books in piles by the bed.

I have, quite literally grown up surrounded by the written word, by Jane Austen and James Herriot and Isaac Asimov and Agatha Christie. By the Classics and by Danielle Steele, by books that my Great-Granny passed down and by books picked up for £1 in service stations and now, I have boxes of books in my friends loft. I have filled all available bookshelves in the house I now share with my boyfriend. There are books upon books under our spare bed, and piles in front of the bedside cabinet that you have to move to open the drawers. There are books in the back of my car and books in the drawers of my desk at work and for the first time in my entire life as my boyfriend tears out his hair and half seriously threatens to leave if another book finds it’s way from the shop to our house, I find myself asking: is there such a thing as too many books.

I think the problem is that I buy faster than I read – which is saying something as I read quite fast – and I buy outside of my means. In a spacial sense rather than a monetary. I buy books that I have no space to store and once I have bought them I am incapable of parting with them. It doesn’t bother me. I’d happily keep on buying, I’d use them as a table, I’d use them as a bed. I would happily live in a house that overflowed with books. I don’t care but when I live with a none-reader, in a small house, when all available shelving and some space that’s actually not quite available is taken up with books then I have to consider a compromise. Like Ian says to me, time after time after time: there has to be a limit. This is a habit that we cannot keep feeding.

So, do I accept that right now I have just the right amount of books, and that any more would be too many and resign myself to a life where there is no bookshop browsing, no picking up brand new books, no stroking their spines lovingly and breathing in their smell and slotting them carefully into their place (alphabetically by author surname) on my already full to bursting bookshelf; a life where there are no second hand bookshops, no hours spend rooting through piles and shelves and boxes, no flipping of the tummy on the discovery of a beautiful edition of a book that I love, that I can’t just leave behind.

Do I resign myself to a life where I don’t buy any more books?

I don’t think I can.

Or, do I accept that in order to keep feeding my habit, I have to first get rid of something. I have to first get rid of some books. That probably makes the most sense. After all, I probably don’t need all the books I have. Some of them I’ll probably never read again. But where does one begin to get rid of pieces of one’s soul?

Do I start with the duplicates? Do I get rid of the first edition BFG, or the copy that comes in a set with Roald Dahl’s other works, thus rendering that set incomplete? Do I get rid of the green penguin paperback version of Little Women that I read every Christmas, or the blue hard-backed copy that my Mum gave to me with it’s pretty illustrations? I have 7 different editions of the Alice books, and I love each of them for different reasons. How do I decide which one to keep? I have to keep them all, it’s the only option.

Or maybe it’s the books from my childhood that should be re-homed. The LM Montgomery and the E Nesbit and the Enid Blyton. The Melvin Burgess and the Beatrix Potter and the Arthur Ransome. Maybe I should wave goodbye to Ballet Shoes and When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit and The Peppermint Pig. I doubt I’d ever read them again now – I’m almost 28 after all – but how can I part with them when every single word represents who I am today. My entire life is tied up in those sometimes dog-eared, sometimes yellowing, always loved pages. Getting rid of them would be like getting rid of my memories and the very thought is enough to make my chest feel tight. There are already books that have gotten lost in the passing of time, and to think about them fills me with sadness. I long for my copy of ‘Nobody Knows I Have Delicate Toes’ which I can probably still recite verbatim and I clapped my hands in delight just a fortnight ago when I found my old set of James Herriot books, bought for 25p each at a charity shop 15 years ago, in my parents attic. No, I can’t get rid of my childhood books, besides, I’d like to read them to my children one day.

Surely, then, the obvious choice would be the books I hated. ‘The Boy in the Striped Pyjama’s.’ I could get rid of that, and books like it. Books that I would give minus points to if I could, books that I am embarrassed to own. Clearly though, not that embarrassed though because there they still sit. Books like the Twilight Saga that I know I won’t read again because they were bad, but that I’m glad I read for the social aspect. The thing is, that in order to appreciate the good you have to make space for the bad. Bad experiences shape a person as much as wonderful ones, and how do you know what wonderful is if you shy away from the awful? It would be superficial of me wouldn’t it, to only surround myself with the beautiful?

& I want pretty books. I want those gorgeous hardbacked editions of the Classics even though I have dog-eared copies of them all. I want that musty old edition of ‘Five Go Off In A Caravan’ from the second-hand bookshop and I want the pretty Waterstones Exclusives of Mark Haddon and Haruki Murakami. & 7 editions of Alice is never going to be enough. I want every book written by every author that I love.

You know why?

Because there’s no such thing as too many books.

Day 11: a book you hated:

‘Breaking Dawn’ – the final instalment in the Twilight series.
Eurgh. I shall try my hardest to refrain from ranting about this book too much, and say only that I hate it…..that said, I’m kind of glad I read it. Twilight is a social thing I think; as much as don’t particularly like the books, they’ve taken the world by storm and I’m pleased I can look back and say “I was there and they were shit” but Breaking Dawn is the worst of a bad lot. I actually fail to understand how these books can have been compared to Harry Potter or His Dark Materials because they are just very bad writing.

In Breaking Dawn Bella becomes a vampire. Not just any vampire but the worlds most amazing vampire. There is this whole build up throughout the whole series about how awful it is to be turned to a vampire but in the end none of it is actually applicable because Bella becomes a vampire and all of a sudden she’s this amazing, agile, perfect, beautiful woman. It’s a bit ridiculous really, but then why should that surprise me? The books are, quite simply ridiculous. It makes me quite angry actually; the messages in this book are laughable and so anti-feminist it’s shocking. Bella is an embarrassment to women everywhere.
For starters you have the whole Bella gushing over Edward thing, which is a running theme throughout the whole series and is just hard to read. Seriously? That’s not a novel, it’s a vomit fest and when you combine that with the fact that Bella never thinks she is good enough for the man that sneaks into her bedroom without her knowing and watches her sleep, well, what kind of message is that giving to the teenage girls that read these books? & Edward is a control freak, there is no getting away from that fact: he won’t let her drive her own car, he ‘forbids’ her from visiting her friends, he hangs around inside her bedroom when she’s asleep and she lets it happen. She has no life outside of Edward and she seems to be fine about it. Meyer is basically saying that the only thing you have to do to get the man of your dreams is change everything about you that makes you who you are. Bella gives up her friends, her family, her humanity for Edward. And he gives up….nothing, but hey, he’s all pretty and sparkly so it’s fine. Should teenage girls with low self esteem really be reading about how the less-than-average Bella would die without her amazing boyfriend? How it’s fine to be with a guy that is clearly a complete and utter control freak? How when your control freak boyfriend does a runner leaving you with nothing (because you gave up everything for him) and you meet a new guy the best thing to do is totally string him along? That would probably be a no.
Guess what else? Stephenie Meyer doesn’t agree with sex before marriage, kids. It is very important to wait. Wait until you’re married and then let your husband beat the life out of you in the bedroom, don’t be a prude. It doesn’t matter if you wake up covered in bruises as long as your wonderful husband is distraught about it in the morning. Bella loses any redeeming features she had, which in all honesty weren’t many, after sleeping with Edward and no matter how pretty RPattz is, he can’t make Edward into somebody appealing.
So, it’s fine to fall in love with a total control freak at the expense of your friends and your family and your sanity; it’s fine to drop out of school and marry said man and in doing so cut yourself off from your entire family; it’s fine to let him hurt you. I suppose the next logical step is that when he gets you pregnant at 18 that’s also fine. Make sure though, that you don’t get an abortion because when Bella falls pregnant with Edward’s baby (lets not even get started on the science of this) which begins to slowly kill her from the inside, breaking her ribs and her pelvis and starving her, she does ‘the right thing.’ Surely, whatever side of the fence you’re on when it comes to the great abortion debate, you can’t deny that this is a bit much.
As for the whole imprinting thing. That just made me uncomfortable.

Basically, this is not a good book.

Day 10 – Favorite classic book

I think it’s pretty safe to say that this has to be Pride and Prejudice. Aaaah, Pride and Prejudice. I can’t read the first line of that novel without wanting to sit down and devour the rest of it in one sitting. I love it, so so much; it’s one of those books that I never get tired of reading. I think Mr. Darcy was my first literary crush, before even the days of Colin Firth (although I admit Colin made me love him more!) and as much as I love the adaptations, the BBC one especially they don’t even begin to do justice to the book; Austen’s use of language is just lovely, and whilst it might seem overly wordy to people used to more modern literature I love the characterisation, the description, the way the story slowly unravels, the exchanges between Lizzie and Darcy that make me laugh out loud and above all, the romance – show me a girl that’s read Pride and Prejudice and doesn’t wish for her own Mr Darcy! Fabulous.

On Saturday night I saw an open air production of Alice in Wonderland, staged by Off The Ground Theatre Company.

Oh dear.

Now, whilst I like the theatre, I am by no means an expert on all things theatrical so please don't think that this little review is backed up by any knowledge because it's not. It's based purely on my own opinion and my opinion is this: the show was disappointing.

I am willing to admit that my love of all things Alice might mean my expectations were unrealistically high but I think it was more than that. The play failed to hold my interest: it kicked off at 6.30pm and by 7pm I was checking my watch and being surprised at how little time had passed.
It felt disjointed and even knowing the book back to front and inside out like I do I found it very hard to follow - my friend Helen said afterwards that it would have benefitted from some kind of narrator and she is exactly right; without the glue that a narrator would have provided things seem to flounder; they jumped from scene to scene with no explanation as to how or why meaning that a lot of the genius there is in the text was just lost and you just had no idea what was happening. Several times I had to really try to figure out just exactly which point of the story we were at. The Caucus Race just seemed like 16 people running around and the scene where the White Rabbit thinks Alice is Mary Ann was just a blur. They stuck in 'The Walrus and the Carpenter' recited by a VERY random TweedleDee and TweedleDum who appeared from nowhere and served no purpose, which was odd considering that's not even from the same book (although, yes, I know it's in the Disney film) and the whole thing just felt a little bit like everybody was trying too hard to be a bit quirky when if they'd let it the story could have done the work for them. The use of modern jokes (the weakest link; CCTV; points mean prizes etc) just grated on me - if their production had been stronger then they wouldn't have needed those. Alice has stood the test of time for long enough to not need to be feebly dragged into 2011. All that combined with the poor staging and the less than great acting meant that the audience (mostly small children) grew bored well before the interval so the second half was peppered with under 5's running on and off the 'set' (a fact the cast dealt with remarkably well, to give them their dues.)

All of that said, I know it can't have been easy: trying to put on a show such as Alice with no stage, little scenery and very few props must have been a challenge, and there were elements that I thought were very clever. The way they used members of the cast dressed in black to form the rabbit hole for example was very well done, parts of it did make me laugh and it was by no means a terrible production. I just feel it didn't reach it's potential, and I wish I'd had some wine.

Day 09 – A book you thought you wouldn’t like but ended up loving:

His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman

My Dad read these books before I did, a long time before I did actually. I think that's probably why I never showed any interest: my Dad and I don't share the same taste in books. He's big on the whole sc-fi/fantasy thing - Issac Asimov, David Eddings, Terry Brooks - and I am catergorically not so it was always safe to say that anything he was reading I wouldn't want too. Yes, I know, I made a very similar mistake with Harry Potter at first in assuming anything my little brother was reading wouldn't be my cup of tea. What can I say? I never learn!

I read them, eventually, a few years ago because the wonderful Jen Campbell told me I should and what you need to know about me is that whilst I might have a history of not reading books I should read because I wrongly assume I'll hate them, I also have a history of reading anything Jen (or my Granny) suggest I should. So, Jen kept telling me I should read them and I was a bit unsure but decided to go for it and BAM. I was hooked. It was like Harry Potter all over again. Lovelovelovelovelove. Lots of love. Actually, I think I might be due a re-read....

in which i am at the Harry Potter premiere

I've been meaning to write this post for a while but it's taken some time for me to be anything even remotely coherent about it all. I'm still not sure I am, so I apologise now if I come across as a gibbering wreck of a fangirl.

I think every now and then you experience something that will change you forever. For me, one of those experiences was Thursday July 7th 2011 when I went to the premiere of the final Harry Potter film: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part2.

As a Harry Potter fan this was a dream come true and I can't begin to tell you what an amazing and surreal experience it was. From the moment I got out of the blacked out Mercedes at Trafalgar Square to be knocked backwards by the force of the thousands of screaming fans, I was totally and utterly overwhelmed; I was literally shaking from the adrenalin. From Maggie Smith(!!!) smiling at Ian and I with an "isn't this mad" to being feet away from Ralph Fiennes as we walked the red carpet to chatting with Robbie Coltrane in the bar the whole experience was just totally surreal.
We also went to the after party which was equally surreal and bucketloads of fun: Warner Bros can certainly put on a party! We're not just talking canapes and champagne either, although both of those were avaialable in abundance. We're talking every cocktail you can think of; hog roasts on the terrace overlooking Tower Bridge; stew and mash; a huge BBQ; a chocolate fountain; a sweet shop and a candy floss stand. And live music. Wow. Talk about unforgettable. I met Nat Tena who made me laugh til I could hardly breath and then I danced to her band
(people everywhere, you need to check out the work of Molotov Jukebox because they are amazing: http://www.myspace.com/molotovjukebox )
I chatted with James and Oliver Phelps and Jason Isaacs, I got an albeit very blurry photo with Rupert Grint and I almost died when Darren Criss danced past me - I chatted with him too.
Have some exciting photos (and please excuse my deranged look. ha):


However, more than all of that was the film, which was quite simply: stunning. It went so far beyond my expectations that I could barely see them. I was an emotional wreck from the start: we watched Dan, Emma, Rupert and Jo's speeches before the film started and I was a mess from there and then at various points through the film the audience just clapped and every time that happened I got a lump in my throat because it just hit me that the people I was sat in the cinema with, this was their film and they loved it and I loved it and this was it. The end. & what a fabulous end it was: somebeody somewhere ought to give Alan Rickman an award for this as he made the film his own. From his very first scene he was outstanding and he almost broke my heart. I cried from The Prince's Tale (the added scene with Snape finding Liy's body slayed me) to the end of the film and was emotionally drained for days afterwards.
The scene with Dumbledore at Kings Cross was amazing and the Resurrection Stone scene was just spot on. It was beautiful, so so beautiful (and so good to see Sirius again.)
Neville was amazing, Molly's 'not my daughter you BITCH' was phenomonal, the Ron/Hermione kiss was beautiful and I loved how that happened in the Chamber, Maggie Smith was fabulous beyond words and I can't not mention the Malfoy's because Lucius and Draco were spot on with their 'we're not sure we want to be bad anymore but we're REALLY scared of Voldemort...'
Speaking odf Voldemort, Ralph Fiennes as ever did the most amazing job. I even liked the epilogue which had me rolling my eyes when I read it.
It was just outstanding and the perfect ending to a series that owns the hearts of so many people. I feel privileged to have been a part of it and it will take a lot of beating. Thank you Mark and Emma Williams for taking me with you. You made my life.

kindle kindle kindle

I did it. I bought a Kindle.....and I love it.

I actually really properly love it. This has surprised me actually, as I honestly never expected too. Even when I’d ordered it and was waiting for it to arrive there was a level of apprehension mixed in with the excitement; I couldn't help wondering if I'd just made a very expensive mistake. And then it arrived, and I opened the box and looked it lying there. I picked it up for the first time and realised how nicely it fitted into my hand; how nice it felt. I switched it on and I set it up and I downloaded my first book and I sat and I read it and I realised I had just fallen in love.

People have asked my why I needed a Kindle: ‘you’re a book girl. What are you doing?’ I know, I know and believe me I tortured myself about that fact for a good long while. I spent a lot of time feeling like I was betraying my (full to bursting) bookshelves, going against everything I believed in. The thing is, I don't not love books now just because I have a Kindle. If anything I appreciate them more. I will never ever not buy books, not love books, not wander into my attic just to look at my books. It's not an either or; nothing has been forsaken.

Or, ‘you have an iPad, why not just get the Kindle app?” The iPad is not an e-reader. The interface is entirely different. The e-reader function on an iPad is gimmicky: reading on an iPad you’re never just reading. You’re always aware that you’re reading on something that is not a book and you’re tempted to check your emails or try the next level of Angry Birds and the screen is bright and as neat as the page turning function is (and believe me I had SUCH fun turning pages when I first got my iPad), it takes more effort than I want to make when I am lost in a book and it's too big. The Kindle is invisible. Not actually invisible, obviously, we’re not at Hogwarts now (more’s the pity) but totally unobtrusive; it’s simple; it does what it says on the box, nothing more and nothing less; it’s focussed solely and completely on the reading experience and not on little quirks that make it cool. With the Kindle there is just you and the words. It weighs next to nothing; the screen is amazing; you can read the biggest book in the world and never get arm ache (I am often put off from reading massive books because I read mostly in bed and my arms get tired sometimes just holding a paperback) and I can have books on my Kindle within 60 seconds. That’s from shop to shelf in a MINUTE people. I can carry it around in my bag and read it on the train and the spine never gets bent and the page corners never get tatty. I just read 5 books on holiday and they took up no space at all in my case & something in me gets a kick out of being able to say that I’m 58% of the way through Wuthering Heights. I like that much more than page numbers. My Kindle has become my new best friend.

That’s not to say it’s perfect – what friend is, after all? It’s not as tactile as a book. I could never replace books entirely. The very thought makes me feel a little queasy. If I had no books then I’d miss the smell and the feel and the sound. I get a lot of pleasure out of books as objects and sitting in my attic surrounded by my books instantly makes me feel more relaxed. I like to look at them on my shelves; I like to pick them up and touch them and breathe them in; I like how pretty they look with their individual covers. You lose all of that on the Kindle. If I lived in a Kindle only world I would be a very sad girl. A world with no book covers would be like a world with no light. In fact, if I could change anything about the Kindle it would be that when I put it on standby the portrait of famous literary figures would be replaced by the cover of the book I was reading. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Every cloud has a silver lining though: with no book covers my guilty pleasures can remain secret. Nobody ever needs to know that I sat on the train the other week reading an LJ Smith ‘Vampire Diaries’ book because like a best friend should, the Kindle keeps my secrets for me.

Since buying my Kindle, I have the best of both worlds and it suits me just fine.

Day 08 – Most overrated book:

The Boy In The Striped Pyjama’s.

I’d almost go so far as to say I found this book offensive. Complete and utter drivel. I honestly, hand on heart wish I’d never read it. (I do want to see the adaptation though, purely for David Thewlis!)

Day 07 – Most underrated book:

There is a very good chance that this has been the longest 30 days EVER. Whoops.

The Cellist of Sarajevo

“Why do you suppose he’s there? Is he playing for the people who died? Or is he playing for the people who haven’t? What does he hope to accomplish?”

This book is one that I happened upon by chance: I read it as a book club book and hadn’t even heard of it, or Galloway beforehand. If it weren’t for that book club, I never would have ever read it, and contemplating that fact makes me shudder. It’s set in a period of history that I know little about. The fact that this book is based on true events that have happened in my lifetime just about broke me: I felt both blessed and ashamed. It’s not a book though, about war, or about the siege of Sarajevo, it’s a book about everyday people, about hope and about courage. There are no large scale events nor does Galloway try to drown you with emotion; in fact, the power of this book lies in it’s simplicity. This book is a must read and deserves a place on every bookshelf.