Growing up and growing with books

This is one shelf in my hallway bookcase, one in a 6-row, 4-column floor-to-ceiling bookcase.  It is full, and there are more books waiting to find their place in this bookcase or any of the others in the living/reading room, the den, the guest room or my bedroom. 

I thought my problem of not enough shelf space was an uncommon one, a reflection of what some have called my addiction or a creeping malady... lo and behold, I am not alone.

Found these articles that echo how I feel about books and why I keep so many around me.. One in the L.A. Times written by Carol Mithers, puts together the whys and hows of several bookworms' collections.  Another one called My Father's Secret Bookcase tells of growing up in a book-loving family living in a bookswamped home.

Brings back my childhood days when the bookshelves ran from one end of the living room to the other, given that there were actually two living rooms in that Fordham St, White Plains house. 

I discovered Pogo which lay at the bottom of the left-most shelf, nearest the corridor that led to the bedrooms.  Since I preferred my company to playing with my rambunctious cousins, I progressed from Pogo to a book about a travelling bookshop to Inside Africa, which was at the topmost shelf on the right-most case in the other side of the living room.  

Four decades after, I find out from google that Inside Africa was published in 1955 and is now one of the rare books. I found a cover photo and it is just as I remembered.  

Been on a book binge ever since my shelf-climbing days. And climb I did, since one had to literally go up those shelfs to access the books.  No folding ladders in the 70s yet, and since I would usually sneak out to the books during naptime, there was no one around to help me get those books.  I think climbing those shelves using hand and foot, was the most strenuous physical activity I ever had.  I would and I did climb anything to get to the books.

From rummaging through the eclectic library of my mother, gathered during her days in New York, both as a graduate student and an employee at the Philippine Consulate at the ripe age of 9 or 10, I started reading more books for my age group, and devoured Nancy Drew, the Bobbsey Twins and the Hardy Boys.  

Then in the 6th grade, somebody gave me 

a slim paperback written by Anne Mather and my Mills & Boon phase began. Romance after romance after romance became my constant companion.  From there I moved on to Sidney Sheldon, Valley of the Dolls and even The Harrad Experiment.  

One summer, I was introduced to Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I was touched by the quest and the insights of JLS. Perhaps because I too was searching for myself then.

Why do I remember these titles and authors from thirty years ago?  Because they were my friends and my confidantes and my companions in the journey through teenhood and high school and college...

In college, I discovered J.R.R. Tolkien. Or I was jolted into realizing I had not read The Lord of the Rings, an unforgiveable, unimaginable oversight which was pointed out by no less than our USC Chairman Lean Alejandro at that time. I bowed my head in shame and asked a fellow journalism classmate about Tolkien.  Same violent, incredulous reaction:  YOU HAVE NOT READ LORD OF THE RINGS?  I got  a dog-eared copy the next day from my classmate, and did not put the book down until I finished it 48 hour after. I never much  liked fantasy before that, aside from the Snow White and Cinderella fairy tales.  But that book swept me off my feet, it was grand, it was human, it was provocative.  You can imagine my delight when the films were finally made. Before the Peter Jackson opus, there was only half-a-tale on film, animated at that. My fascination with fantasy continues to this day, with Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time as the most enjoyable series after The Lord of the Rings.

Somewhere after Tolkien, I met Ayn Rand and her Objectivist Philosophy. I loved the way she wove her characters, especially in We, the Living and Atlas Shrugged. In my 20s, reading her was like continuing my protest actions in college.  A totally different view of being and living in those days.  I read most of her novels, and started collecting her books.  Even had a hard-bound copy of Atlas Shrugged which someone borrowed and never returned. I think it was at that point that I decided I would be more selfish about my books, especially the hard-cover expensive ones that I like to collect. 

Even during my college days, I continued to raid my mom's shelves. She had progressed to T. Lobsang Rampa, Edgar Cayce and Kahlil Gibran. I read them and loved Kahlil Gibran the most.  

Over and over again, through the years, I would meet so many authors and plunge into new worlds and exciting lives. Up to my early 30s, reading was my foremost activity outside of work.  Like I kept saying then, give me a good book over a boring date anytime. And I had proven myself right once or twice, the once or twice that I agreed to go out on a blind date.  Enough said. Yes, I was a bookworm then, I am still a bookworm now, I will always be a bookworm...

The list goes on... Louisa May Alcott, Antoine de St Exupery, Anton Chekhov, Alexandr Solzhenitsyn's A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, Dante, D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover, John Fowles' The French Lieutenant's Woman, Leon Uris, Robert Ludlum, Dan Brown, The Last Cato, Labyrinth, Janet Dailey, Barbara Cartland, Andrew Greeley, John Twelve Hawks...

The reading never stops, the hoarding goes on, the dilemma about where to put the books stays the same, day in and day out.  Growing up and growing...now that one my bestfriend would have a lot to say about.  What a life in books I have. Thank God.