A story about books

Let me tell you a story.

A few months ago I headed to the Sydney finger wharves under the shadow of the Harbour Bridge. In the tip of one of the fingers, I sat in a room as the sun glistened off the harbour through the window and I listened to three authors describe why they loved  literature and the authors who first stole their heart, as it were. Listening to them, I too was reminded of why books have meant so much to me and the authors that have defined my life.

All three of the authors on the panel had just published a book, and spent some time talking about it, and I wrote all three titles down, determined to at least buy one of them and read it, after having such on intimate connection with them.

A few weeks later I found myself in Gleebooks, on Glebe Point Rd. and I came across two of the books by the authors I had listened to, back at the festival. I thumbed through each, reading the descriptions on the back cover and the reviews on the inside pages. Holding one in each hand, I looked at the prices on the back; they were both about the same price, so no easy decision that way. Putting one down, I kept the other book, because that author had said people often compare his writing with Dickens, which is quite a statement, and a rather bold one to say about yourself, but he seemed to say in a self-deprecating way, enough at least for me to want to see if it’s true and put the other book down. However, as Rachel wasn’t with me, I spent another hour browsing the shelves and as often happens my frugality beat my vice at a slow arm-wrestle and I left with no books, wishing it didn’t take so long for the newly published to make their way to second hand bookstores.

Here I am a few months later, and the book is sitting on the couch right next to me. The corners are crisp and smooth and the pages still smell fresh and don’t stick together from layers of built-up dust. My eyes skip over the words and I think how crazy people are who buy one of those electronic book thingys, and miss out on the joys of the weight of the pages in your hand and watching your bookmark wade from cover to cover through the folds of pages.

So, I caved in after all? Nope, and here enters the hero of the story: the public library.

One day as I sat around my house, lamenting because there was nothing good on tv and I didn’t feel like reading any of the books on my shelf, I decided to see if I could find an obscure book I’d been looking for on the Marrickville council library website. I always look for books by this author when I enter bookstores and rarely ever find any, so I thought I’d see what the odds were that the library would have it.

It did have it! Not only that it had about five books that I’ve been wanting to read but haven’t come across through years of scouring used book stores.

“This is incredible,” I thought. “I wonder what else I can find on here.”

I thought back to those three authors on the panel, one of whom had won the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize a few days after the festival for the book he talked about. I looked all three up. The library had all three though they were scattered throughout Sydney at different branches.

“I wonder how hard it is to get them sent to the library down the road,” I thought.

Next to the book is a hold button. I pushed it. Next are a list of branches with boxes next to them. I click the Stanmore library branch.

It’s on hold. I was so giddy by this point I went into a holding frenzy, finding book after book and organising a massive migration of paper and binding to be sent to my local library to be picked up at my earliest convenience.

For two of the books by the panelists I had to be put in a queue. “That’s annoying.” I thought. “It will probably take ages.”

A few days later I get a succint, little email telling me both of my books are in and they will be held for two weeks for pick up. It was good they actually gave me this time, because I had to hurry through the book I was currently reading.

The next Saturday morning, I woke up, ate breakfast, read the paper, drank a cup of tea, and rode my bike along the train tracks to the Stanmore library, a small structure that looks like one of those prefabricated houses that travel down the highways on the back of semi-trucks. I walked up to the counter, took out my library card, slapped it on the table (ok, I politely handed it to the man, and whispered that I had a book to collect). He looked at me smiling, and we understood each other. Amidst this crazy world, where we are buying ourselves and the world into oblivion, there is still a place that is run by trust, good will, the love of knowledge (dare I say a hint of socialism) and I think it’s one of the most fantastic places that exists.

Let’s all raise a glass, to our own local public libraries. The last stronghold of that which is good and decent in this world.

Oh, and they have movies too.