I shudder sometimes when I come across articles relating to the decluttering of one’s home. I look at images of childrens’ bedrooms done up in bright colours and floating shelves artfully decorated with the odd car or doll – where are the books, I ask myself.
I know a child who loves to read.
I shudder sometimes when I hear people talking about ‘getting rid’ of their childrens’ clothes and toys and the books they have ‘grown out of’.
I know a child who loves to know who used to read the book she’s reading.
I shudder when I see books used as props in home décor magazines to hold a pot plant or piled on the floor tied with coloured string to serve as a doorstop. How can you treat books like this, I want to shout.
I know a child who loses herself in worlds away from where she lives.
I really shudder when I see books in good condition being cut up, or pasted over, or painted, or folded in the name of an art form that is likely to be tossed aside in years to come.
I know a child who longs for peace and solitude so that she can read undisturbed.
I know a child who harbours a desire to keep every book she has enjoyed.
I have kept the books my children read. They have been dusted off for the next generation to read.
I love reading the stories I read to my children to their children.
I love listening to my children reading the stories I read to them to their children.
Books are friends
Books need to be read
Books need to be cherished
Books need to be shared.