Books are our Friends?

I’ve never counted how many books I read. I read a lot. I do read some science and the occasionally biography, but mostly it’s pure escapism, taking me to other worlds, full of magic and wonder, the kind of Sci-fi or Fantasy written by real masters; Tolkien, of course, Stephen Donaldson, Peter F Hamilton, Iain M. Banks, Robert Jordan (I’m only a little ashamed the I have in fact read the entire Wheel of Time series), Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Terry Pratchett, Greg Bear, just to name a few of my favourites. It’s the stuff I was raised on; Mum used to read to us when we were little, me and my little sister, lying quietly while she did ALL of the voices in the books. Did you know that Legolas (and all elves for that matter) spoke with an Irish accent? I credit this as the main reason I have a sharper-than-it-should-be dislike for that androgynous waif Orlando Bloom who played him in the LOTR movies.

I’ve always had this abiding respect for books, not just because I enjoy reading them, but something deeper, almost spiritual. As if they possessed some abstract quality which accorded them respect beyond their immediate worth as a work of wit and labour.

“Books are our friends,” intoned my Honoured Matre, prompted by an act of literary cruelty, namely, throwing a book across the room. “Books are our friends and you should treat them with respect.”

So here I am, almost an adult at 29 and recalling this often repeated phrase is a telling reminder that we have so many little ways in which our childhoods shapes our adulthood. But is it true, are they our friends? From one perspective, a book can be categorised with a TV; designed to take your mind elsewhere for a while. From another, a book is an argument, laying out before the reader a case for, or against, or maybe simply exploring an idea.

Ideas are not limited to your friends. Those who might wish you harm also have them. A book is a powerful conduit from one mind to the other, transmitting that most infectious of agents to the next host. With this in mind, a book takes on an eldritch light, glowing with the accumulated wealth of knowledge of its authors and makers, setting out in plain speak that which is so. A book can tell the future, it can analyse the past, it can make bold claims about the present and change the course of events. It can deceive and lie, prevaricate and dissemble, all dressed up in florid prose or techno-babble. It is a special thing, to be cherished, respected and feared.

But perhaps I wouldn’t actually call them “friends”.