There was a period in my life when I changed apartments a lot. Each time, the number of books I dragged along with me grew. When I moved to Paris – in May 2000 – I left some of them behind. Ten years later, I'm on the move again. Not very far this time: just to Clichy. But the books have propagated, and now there are more of them than ever.
In this digital age, people might start to wonder whether analogue books are really necessary. When we buy a book, how often do we read it again? But each time I move, I'm reminded that every book tells a story – and not just the story inside its pages.
Here, for instance, is Essential Law for Journalists, which reminds me of the school where I learned my trade. There is a book about surrealist art, bought for me by my brainy first girlfriend (who thought I lacked culture). And that battered paperback copy of Don Quixote was in my backpack when I hitchhiked around Spain in 1990. Reminders of trips are everywhere. Two books about Feluda, the Indian detective, I bought from a store in Cochin, Kerala. The biography of Bruce Chatwin still contains grains of sand from the beaches of Zanzibar. Jonathan Strange and Mister Norrell walked with me in the autumnal streets of Edinburgh. And Fred Vargas was the first author I read in French.
Life has many chapters. And for each one there is a book.
