Sam Neill almost crushed my dog. Well, to be honest, it wasn’t actually the actor’s fault. I might have been culpable, looking back. But, your honour, I couldn’t help myself.
“Books are everywhere in my new home, groaning on shelves, piled up as makeshift coffee tables, peeking out of handbags.” Credit: ISTOCK
You see, next to my bed is a stack of books so high that when I added Neill’s biography, it turned the pile into a Jenga-like debacle, toppling the lot. My French bulldog, Roxy, whose snooze was rudely interrupted by the crash, gave me a death stare as if to say, “I told you so.” I could have sworn she even rolled her eyes.
Books are everywhere in my new home, groaning on shelves, piled up as makeshift coffee tables, peeking out of handbags. Cookbooks lie open on my kitchen bench, the photos of exquisite dishes teasing me, and I also keep several by my bath to savour during my next soak.
There is always a novel in my car to entertain me should I ever arrive somewhere early (i.e. never) and books friends have written that are so precious I would grab them in a fire before anything else (other than Roxy, of course!). Then there’s a biography signed by my favourite PM, Gough Whitlam, so treasured I check the hands of anyone handling it for cleanliness.
Yep, I am obsessed.
I can trace this fervent love back to a small child reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, so bedazzled by Narnia that I wanted to reside there in my mind rather than re-enter everyday life.
I recall the marvel of the leather-lined encyclopedias my father bought after being pressured by a door-to-door salesman and realising they magically held almost all the answers to the questions that sprang from my incessant curiosity.
I was awe-struck by the imaginations of fiction writers who could create characters so vivid I believed they actually existed.
As a teenager, I was both appalled and transfixed by Humbert Humbert’s sordid desire for the nubile Lolita in Vladimir Nabokov’s seminal novel. Another book, Helter Skelter, about the 1969 Manson Family murders, ignited an addiction for true crime that remains to this day.
I also remember sitting up in bed at my grandfather’s house late at night when I should have been sleeping, sobbing at the last pages of 1984 so loudly that my poor old pop thought there had been a break-in.
I formed my many of my political views from books. I idolised those who revealed their innermost pains and passions in biographies. I was awe-struck by the imaginations of fiction writers who could create characters so vivid I believed they actually existed.
I was transported to other worlds through sci-fi (I still love a dystopian deep dive), looked back in horror at the transgressions of past generations through historical accounts, and became so entranced by Egyptology I made a vow to myself that I would one day visit the pyramids – and did. My first atlas was also a revelation, spurring my passion for travel. (One of the books piled next to my bed is an atlas, and I often turn to a random page for inspiration.)
I have laughed aloud at books such as my beloved A Confederacy of Dunces, awestruck by John Kennedy Toole’s genius (a tragic genius, as he took his own life after his book was rejected, only to be awarded the Pulitzer Prize for it 12 years later).
These days, I always try to ensure that I read a book before I watch its screen adaptation as I usually prefer the written word to the cinematic interpretation. (It’s like the way watching the video clip of a favourite song can change the song’s meaning. Some things are best unseen.)
My loved ones are aware of my passion for books, with one former boyfriend buying me Kindle – the horror! – as a well-intentioned gift. For me, reading on a screen is work. Holding a book in my hand? Well, that’s bliss.
Despite now having split my bedside book pile into two manageable stacks Roxy can safely navigate around, I must admit I haven’t learnt my lesson about hoarding. Instead, I’ve ordered another bookshelf to hold my treasures. Minimalism be damned.
As for Sam Neill, well, he’s coming to the country with me this weekend. I imagine devoting an entire day to curling up with his bio, escaping into his world, absorbing his sorrows, delighting in his joys. I know it will be an intimate and unique experience. Books always are.
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When a beloved actor almost crushed my dog, I knew my love of books was obsessive
18
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14.12.2023
Sam Neill almost crushed my dog. Well, to be honest, it wasn’t actually the actor’s fault. I might have been culpable, looking back. But, your honour, I couldn’t help myself.
“Books are everywhere in my new home, groaning on shelves, piled up as makeshift coffee tables, peeking out of handbags.” Credit: ISTOCK
You see, next to my bed is a stack of books so high that when I added Neill’s biography, it turned the pile into a Jenga-like debacle, toppling the lot. My French bulldog, Roxy, whose snooze was rudely interrupted by the crash, gave me a death stare as if to say, “I told you so.” I could have sworn she even rolled her eyes.
Books are everywhere in my new home, groaning on shelves, piled up as makeshift coffee tables, peeking out of handbags. Cookbooks lie open on my kitchen bench, the photos of exquisite dishes teasing me, and I also keep several by my bath to savour during my next soak.
There is always a novel in my car to entertain me should I ever arrive somewhere early (i.e. never) and books friends have written that are so precious I would grab them in a fire before anything else (other than Roxy, of course!).........
© The Age
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