Originally published in print December 2021
Art by Emily Stevenson.
I’ve never completely understood my obsession with second hand books. There were the obvious appeals of course, of being able to build a personal library on a budget, or of finding a copy of cover art that has long since gone out of print. However, they do not alone account for the attachment I have for opening up a broken-spined book and running my hand over the preloved pages. With Dublin’s beloved Chapters set to close in early 2022, it’s only fitting that I write my ode to second hand books and the stores that foster them.
I tend to take the term ‘adopt not shop’ into everyday life: thrifting clothes, repairing instead of replacing, clothes and book swaps. This is perhaps where my fascination with preloved books comes from. In charity shops and second-hand book shops, there are shelves lined with broken spines and dog-eared pages. Although not as aesthetically pleasing as brand-new covers, books that have been broken in over multiple readings have a specific energy from being loved before. There is a simplicity in viewing a book as just a didactic object, but they are often so much more. The same book can be something different to all of its past owners. It could have been their way of passing the morning commute, or the story which made them love to read again, or the book that relit that childhood feeling of staying up late because they are unwilling to put the title down. It may have been the book that hit a little too close to home, or the favourite book of an old lover, which conjured up fond memories when spotted on the crowded shelves. The book that you smooth the cover of in Chapters or St. Vincent de Paul has already lived many lives with many different people. It is romantic to think that in taking it home, stacking it among our shelves and reading it when we feel it’s needed, we are playing our role in that book’s lifecycle. You could almost say we are a chapter in that book’s story – but that might be a little too on the nose.
Once I’ve finished with a book, I always like to put my name and the year inside the cover in pencil and return it to some sort of second-hand shop so that the cycle can continue. I like to imagine that among the copies of 90s romance novels and out-of-print cookbooks, the book that I have just returned will grab the interest of its next temporary owner. I’m charmed by the idea that the title will continue to be passed through the different hands that felt attracted to its contents, and take what they need from its venerable pages. It’s a completely idealised romantic idea, but being a child that grew up on Toy Story and teddy bear rotations so that none would feel left out, it’s one that always brings me joy when I open up a preloved book to begin my small role in its life.
