A bookworm's Pygmalion

Jim, lord of all he possessed, which at the time wasn't all that much, felt disappointed by what he perceived as the slights and slanders of everyday life. So he thought he would withdraw from life and build himself some splendid bookshelves and begin to fill those shelves with beautiful books. He had always liked carpentry and had tended to take refuge in his home and in reading when he felt things were not going well.

The bookshelves provided him with an absorbing project; he was cheered by the making of excellent joints and with the odd flourish of carving at the edges of the shelves - just a subtle scroll; nothing too much. As he worked, he thought about how, when the shelves were done and filled with new books, he would stay in more. After all, in his entanglements with people, he felt susceptible to critical voice. If he retreated a bit more, he would surely be happier.

Eventually, the bookshelves were finished. One for most of the rooms of his house, all with slightly different design and, in some rooms, painted in subtle chalky colours. He gazed at his shelves and his woodworking tools and felt content, but when he looked outside the window, he felt a pang of anxiety. Oh. The outside world. Other people.

Now, he assembled what books he had on the shelves and saw how empty those shelves looked. Right: he would buy his books online, so as not to sully the perfection of what he had done. For what if someone looked askance at him when he was choosing his books? Then, perhaps, his project would feel spoiled. At the moment, his skin was thin and he was tired of the society of others.

Ah - but Jim found he couldn't get everything he wanted and he began to want to handle the books; to look at them as physical objects and admire their aesthetics and have them there to eat up the stories within. Greedily and rapturously. So out he went to add to his collection. He had no Greek Myths on his shelf, for instance: how he had enjoyed listening to his father read from The Golden Porch when he was young. So that was the first thing he looked for. But while in the shop, time stood still and he was reading, reading; lost in pleasure, just as another was, near to him. He looked at her sideways. Hmmmm. Helen?

The next day he went back to buy more books and she was there again. This time she looked sideways at him and caught his look.

Eventually, Jim's bookshelves were full, with texts that told him not only when to be alone, but also how you might live with a full heart. And then he and Helen - the face that launched six bookshelves, as it turned out - threw a book party.


Photo of some of my books -these in one part of the kitchen- by Giles Turnbull, who has never knowingly flown too near the sun.