A Lifelong Love Affair by Deborah Cooke

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You might be thinking that I'm going to talk about my husband here, but he's a comparatively recent love compared to my love of books. Books and I go waaaaaay back. I don't remember when I learned to read - it just seems as if I always have - and books have always been a big part of my life.

I still have my first books. MY BOOK HOUSE is a twelve volume set, compiling children's stories. The leather spines are shaded from green through blue, with each book a different colour. They'd look good on a shelf even if they were never used - mine are dog-eared. My mother has a fun photo of me with the first of those books open in my lap and all my stuffed toys arranged around me as I "read" to them. I must be all of two in that photo, so it's unlikely I could actually read the text. Maybe I had the story memorized. Maybe I was making things up, even then. My love of books, though, was already established.

I remember getting in trouble in fifth grade for reading the dictionary inside my desk instead of listening to the math lesson. Fiction didn't have an exclusive hold on my heart. I remember a bookstore on Bloor Street when I was a student that sold "hurt Penguins" - with a little sad face on the sign - at a discounted price. Yes, we have several shelves worth of those orange-spined Penguin classics. I remember going into bookstores when I was travelling in Europe, even though I couldn't read in the local language, just because I missed books and bookstores so much.

I also remember many wondrous bookstores that no longer exist and that saddens me. The one that sold the Penguins is gone. Britnells is a Starbucks now, a beautiful Starbucks, but it was a magical bookstore for decades. Going to Britnells was like visiting an old English gentleman's private library. The staff spoke in hushed tones, and they would find you any book that was still in print. Before the internet and online book vendors, that was a marvelous thing.

Books, books, books. They fill my house and my life. At any point in time, I've only read about 80% of what I have, but I keep finding new ones that have to come home with me. Whenever I get rid of books, it's more than a painful exercise. Someone made a great score when I took all my collection of vintage fantasy and science fiction books to Goodwill - and I've been regretting that choice ever since.

The rest stay.

When my husband and I were dating, one glimpse of his apartment told me that I'd met my match. He had barristers' bookcases - no bricks and boards for him - the kind with glass doors to keep the dust off the books. Even better, he collected the little leatherbound books called Everyman's Library from the early twentieth century. They look as good together as my Penguin Classics do. I have Ovid and he has Dickens. I have Marie de France and he has Walter Raleigh. The merger between our libraries was perfect.

Best of all, there was space on his shelves. I knew I could slide some of my books into those gaps. He's a more selective book shopper, choosing one volume with care while I "need" six or eight - between us, though, we've collected an enormous number of books. The barristers' bookcases are jammed full now, and we're always looking for another one - anything has to be better than ousting beloved books. We have friends who come to stay and end up reading, just reading and browsing as one would browse library stacks.

Our "library" is somewhat eclectic and disorganized, though. I can give you a rough direction if you're looking for a specific volume, but that's a far cry from Dewey Decimal. (Fitzgerald and Hemingway are in the living room right now, for example. It only seems right for them to be together, doesn't it?)

What about you? Are you an avid reader? Do you collect books or go to the library? How full are your bookshelves? How well do you have them sorted, if at all?

Visit www.deborahcooke.com

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