In pre-Kindle days book-lovers, perhaps fearing the fate of the bibliophile who was crushed to death by his own collapsing bookshelves, nerved themselves, very occasionally, to the torture of a cull. Torture, yes, for getting rid of books, as a dear friend remarks, is similar to peeling off a layer of skin.
I remember my parents once deciding that Something Had to be Done about their fairly unmanageable and catholic collection of books. My father nobly volunteered, and sorted through about a thousand volumes, from which number he selected six he thought he could part with: just. Then my mother happened along, and exclaimed, 'Good Heavens, Bill, we can't throw out these three!'
I have recently had to Do Something about a book cull; what agony it has been. And all the while wise words haunted me. A life ruined by literature: Anita Brookner. People tell me that life is the thing, but I prefer reading: Logan Pearsall Smith. A book is like a garden in your pocket: Chinese proverb.
When I, a Melburnian, knew that I was going to spend six months in Greece on a holiday that subsequently got well out of hand, as decades later I am still here, I arranged for a trunk of books to be sent over: I knew there were no libraries where I was going, and that there were would be very few English books available. My illiterate mother-in-law was stupefied, but rallied quickly. 'So many books,' she said. 'Can't you sell some of them?'
I did not answer, but should have known she would react like this, as during her one visit to Melbourne she had told me roundly that too much thiavasma, reading, was undoubtedly the cause of my prematurely grey hair and my need to wear glasses.
Although many of my ancestors were also illiterate, once others got to Australia and acquired some education, there was no stopping them: they had caught the reading bug and never became interested in finding an antidote. Dickens was a particular favourite, and legend has it that my mother's maternal grandfather Robert used to read the current volume aloud to his wife Fan in bed at night. She, poor woman, had eight children, and was understandably drooping with fatigue at the end of each day. Robert didn't care: the reading was the thing.
'You're not listening, Fan,' he is supposed to have said fairly regularly.
'Yes I am, Robert.'
'Well then,