Reflections on Reading and the Value of Books

Reading has a profound impact on our lives, influencing our identities and experiences. The stories we delve into and the knowledge we acquire shape our understanding of the world. In this article, we explore the significance of books and the ways they enrich our lives.

Hello, I’m Yves. When I moved away from New York City and later the United States, I felt a deep sense of sadness as I parted with many of my books. I managed to bring along a fair number, but the process was bittersweet. In contrast, my mother, who often read a book a day, viewed them as disposable items. Her preferences leaned towards murder mysteries and the occasional historical novel. She fondly recalls her happiest childhood memories as spent reading in her room, savoring roquefort and crackers that she insists were far superior to anything available today. This suggests that for her, reading was a form of escapism. How about you?

By Satyajit Das, a former banking expert and author of several technical works on derivatives, alongside general titles such as Traders, Guns & Money: Knowns and Unknowns in the Dazzling World of Derivatives (2006 and 2010), Extreme Money: The Masters of the Universe and the Cult of Risk (2011), and A Banquet of Consequence – Reloaded (2021). His most recent book is an exploration of ecotourism – Wild Quests: Journeys into Ecotourism and the Future for Animals (2024), co-published with New Indian Express Online

In the early 2000s, my partner and I embarked on an apartment hunt. Our request for ‘lots of walls’ puzzled real estate agents, forcing us to clarify that we desired solid brick structures—not trendy glass partitions—to support our collection of over 4,000 books.

Unlike many, I did not come from a family of avid readers. Growing up in India, the only reading materials I had were school texts, which changed dramatically when we emigrated to Australia. In high school, I found myself as the only non-white student among 750 peers. This separation made forming connections difficult, as most students were already acquainted since primary school. To fill this void, I discovered the school library and later a well-stocked public library nearby. It marked the beginning of my lifelong reading journey, blissfully unaware of Petrarch’s caution: “Books have led some to learning and others to madness when they swallow more than they can digest.”

Before I reached my fifteenth birthday, I began working part-time, which gave me a newfound independence. For the first time, I could buy books rather than borrow them, and this quickly became a habit. Over time, I slowly cultivated my collection, with some volumes tracing back to the early 1970s.

Books are intricately tied to our sense of identity and self-worth. For some, a library serves as a status symbol rather than a place for reading. You encounter hardbacks and leather-bound editions, often viewed as investments rather than texts to be opened. A bookbinder once told me that the luxurious leather-bound antiquarian books he restores at high prices are rarely read. Fancy bookshelves and bookends, crafted from materials like marble or optical glass, can cost hundreds or even thousands of dollars.

In contrast, my own collection consists of affordable paperbacks, many second-hand or discarded library copies, as these institutions adjust their focus. My shelves are lined with utilitarian white melamine and standard metal bookends. For me, it’s the content that matters most.

The act of reading remains central to my existence. It has never been merely a pastime or form of entertainment, but rather a source of knowledge. As an emigrant who has left a life behind, I recognize that the only possessions I truly hold are the insights I carry within my mind. Everything else is fleeting.

Books serve as timestamps in our lives, embodying the moments we read them and their significance during that time. Upon rereading, they evoke reflections of both past and present. They shape our relationships with others as well. One of the most significant challenges my partner and I faced during our four decades together was deciding whether to combine our separate libraries. To this day, each title bears a mark designating ownership—hers or mine. As Argentine writer Carlos María Domínguez aptly noted: “To build up a library is to create a life. It’s never just a random collection of books.”

Deconstructing the concept of books raises questions regarding choice: What to read? Should you buy physical copies or opt for digital editions? How does our acquired knowledge influence our relationships? Do you lend your books to others?

If you read two books a week from the age of ten, you would amass around 7,000 books over a lifetime. With an estimated 160 million unique titles available, selectivity becomes crucial.

Initially, I was unsure about what to read or what held value. Lacking access to fellow readers, I had no literary references. Book reviews were unfamiliar territory, prompting me to read indiscriminately and satisfy my curiosity—a quality that may be the greatest asset for any reader. One book often leads to another, whether from following an author, diving into a subject, or exploring a work referenced in something I was reading.

Some educators provided encouragement, inspiring me to expand my reading beyond the standard curriculum, introducing me to translated Russian and European literature, which now spans works from around the globe. I recall someone saying that art critic Robert Hughes, famed for his book Shock of the New, was echoing the ideas of Clement Greenberg. This led me to explore Greenberg’s essays. Countless hours spent in bookstores broadened my interests, with some days spent rummaging through shelves or even reading entire books, occasionally drawing concerned looks from staff worried I might be homeless or a shoplifter.

My reading tastes remain eclectic, encompassing fiction, history, philosophy, current affairs, politics, science, travel, biography, culture, art, and nature writing. Some joke that I would even read a telephone directory if there were nothing else available.

With limited access to theater, I often turned to scripts. Although I now enjoy live performances, I still prefer the written word, as it allows me to bypass the disappointments of modern interpretations that stray from the source material. The phrase ‘adapted from [insert name of drama]’ often signifies a departure from authentic theatrical storytelling.

Though viewing paintings or sculptures is preferable, art books are sometimes the only way to appreciate an artist’s work. The crowds at exhibitions often prevent deep contemplation, yet art books provide quality reproductions and allow for a more thorough understanding of the artist’s journey.

I’ve learned to see that genre is largely irrelevant. It’s often through literature that we gain deeper insights into history and culture. For instance, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Solzhenitsyn offer more profound reflections on Russia than many academic histories. Similarly, Ryszard Kapuściński’s travel writing provides essential perspectives on global politics that many scholarly texts overlook.

Inspired by Socrates’ philosophy, “An unexamined life is not worth living,” I strive to know everything about specific subjects and something about everything else.

Perhaps due to my age, I prefer traditional bound volumes and have yet to embrace eBooks; there is something magical about the tactile experience of holding a real book.

We organize our collection by subject matter or genre, then alphabetically within those categories. This method creates unexpected pairings: Dostoevsky beside Conan Doyle, Baldwin and Bellow nestled between Babel and Borges; Kafka next to Kawabata, Musil following Murakami, with Zweig’s The World of Yesterday closing the fiction section. Biographies feature King before Kissinger, with Mao and Mapplethorpe surprisingly aligned. These serendipitous placements lead to delightful new discoveries.

Time is captured in the books themselves, evidenced by the wear and fragility of some titles. As my collection expands, it begins to outstrip available shelf space, resulting in disorder. Books are stacked horizontally atop vertical rows, and double layers obscure titles. This mirrors the growing complexity and chaos of the world at large.

For me, reading remains a deeply solitary endeavor. Machiavelli famously donned fine robes before secluding himself to read in quiet. Even though I take diligent notes on points of interest, I find little need to discuss texts with others.

Book clubs tend to emphasize social interactions more than the literature itself. Some communal approaches integrate travel and adventure, such as reading Herman Melville’s Moby Dick aboard a ship in a storm, or studying Virginia Woolf’s The Waves in St Ives. These experiences often center around self-exploration, with the literary works becoming a secondary focus for individuals longing to become writers themselves.

Semiotician Roland Barthes offered an intriguing perspective on reading in his works Pleasure of the Text and S/Z. He distinguished between ‘readerly’ texts that require little engagement from the reader and ‘writerly’ texts that compel active involvement. I have always preferred to engage metaphorically with the writer, allowing the text to remain dynamic and continually redefined.

The issue of lending books is complex; I tend to lend sparingly, uncertain whether others will treat them with the same care I expect. Erasmus and Petrarch regarded books as sacred relics and viewed their libraries as paradisiacal sanctuaries.

Recently, we contemplated downsizing in acknowledgment of life’s fleeting nature, prompting us to consider letting go of many treasured books in light of William Morris’ directive: “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” This reflection pushed me to envision a life devoid of my beloved books. While I could still read, I realize that reading has become intimately woven with my collection. I cherish walking along the shelves, rediscovering titles that linger in my thoughts, and the joy of placing a new addition on the shelf brings me immense satisfaction. The sight of rows filled with titles is visually delightful.

Contemplating the essence of reading and books grows increasingly important to me. Walter Benjamin famously described how unpacking his library allowed him to truly live, as his books defined a space into which he could retreat. I now resonate with American journalist Christopher Morley’s sentiment: “When you sell a man a book, you don’t sell him 12 ounces of paper and ink and glue – you sell him a whole new life.”

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