Book Bonding

I'm just back from an early morning cuppa, cake and chat session in town, followed by a quick trot around the artists' market. The weather was beautiful. Since storm clouds are now gathering outside my window, it turned out to be a good idea to ignore the more anal side of my character and forgo my usual Sunday morning habit of writing in my jammies for a spot of socialising. However, this schedule swap means I shall now have to play catch-up this afternoon to satisfy that nagging voice at the back of my head which only a few hours at the keyboard will silence.

I do love getting out though, and engaging in the risky business of meeting new people. A couple of weeks ago, I met up with a friend for Sunday Arvo lunch at a local restaurant, and she brought along a couple of her friends that I'd never met before. In the mood for an easy and relaxed time, I was hesitant when she first asked if they could join us, because there's no denying that strangers can turn into a nightmare of incompatibility, strained silences, false conviviality and constantly sneaking glances at the time and trying to work out when you can leave without seeming too rude. In this particular case, it was, thank goodness, the exact opposite. The talk was passionate, articulate, interesting, non-stop and of the very arty sort. Time flew and we all left together. The couple lived just a few houses down from the restaurant in one of those gorgeous old houses you get up here in the goldfields area, and they kindly gave me a look around inside. I want that house! And the artwork on the walls was stunning.

Anyway, there were bookshelves. Many bookshelves. What can one do in such a situation but scan the titles? One in particular jumped out, partly because of its recently-read-and-not-yet-filed position resting on top of other books, partly because its so BIG, and partly because it's a book I absolutely adore. It was Bill Bryson's At Home: A Short History of Private Life. My eyes lit up. I excitedly pointed it out. Another pair of eyes lit up. Animated words tumbled forth from one of my hosts. I countered with a long, rambling litany of the amazing historical information and admirably oddball people contained within its covers. My host had his own favourite facts and characters. We talked over each other. We launched into a lively discussion on the declining tolerance of true eccentricity, digressed into the nature of genuine courage, waxed lyrical about the horrors of living in London before town planners incorporated a sewerage system, and would probably still be standing by that bookcase right now combing through the pages of Bill's book and exclaiming if not for the shortfalls of Real Life.

It was a classic case of book bonding. For weeks and weeks after finishing it, I bored people rigid with facts and figures from At Home and tried to convince them that their lives would remain forever without context if they didn't read it, but here was someone who taken the same internal journey as I had while reading it and had found the adventure just as thrilling. I'm smiling now even as I remember and write this. Humans, no matter how good we are at denying the fact, are intrinsically isolated creatures who nonetheless long to be a part of a group or herd, and we need the emotional, intellectual and physical connection points associated with family, friends, sports, ideas, work, hobbies, the arts and whatever to form the relationships that help diffuse the boundaries of our separate existences. Books are just one of many means by which we can achieve that union, and I find it quite miraculous whenever it happens.