There is an aching, like a hole inside of you that burns at its edges. For those who obsessively read you understand this aching, this passionate longing. It’s not about a want, not even so much a need but desire, the kind born of fire. The kind set on by books.

I love books, books are the essence of what defines most of who I am and obviously my love of words. There’s an adventure on every page, something new to be discovered, learned and savoured. When I open a book for the first time, that new book smell. The smell of paper and ink, the dizziness of a new story, it is intoxicating, almost sinful sometimes. 

In the lockdown, level five, we’ve given them levels in South Africa, it’s all very exciting. In level five the sale of books was not allowed. I have always thought of books as essential items of life, we feed our bodies with food, for some our souls with faith or belief, but our minds we feed with books and we must feed our minds. What good is a healthy body or soul if the mind that binds it is starved? 

When I examine the last thirty-five days, what I have missed the most are books, the ability to get new books. Yes, I miss my family and my friends desperately. But I am so used to isolation that people, though something I wanted for, were never things I ached for. Being a closet introvert, I was always better at my own company than with others, most people never truly understood it. Truth be told, most of the time when I am with people I am desperate to bury my nose in a book. There is something about a world that you can only travel in your mind, there is safety, a sense of belonging, a peace that brings me joy.

During the level five of the lockdown in the time of Covid 19; I hadn’t been able to get my hands on any new books, at least not physical ones anyway. I tried to read on my Kindle but it didn’t feel the same, something was missing and the unhappiness that had made camp in my being darkened. The unhappiness came two weeks into the lockdown, on the exact day I realised I had run out of new books to read, it took some time for me to make the connection but eventually I did. Unable to read a new book, get lost in the pages so carefully crafted between author and editor, I barely slept, I devoted myself to baking and cooking but that peace still evaded me. 

There was no such peace for me until today – level four of lockdown. The calling was so strong I couldn’t wait to go out and get some new books. For the first time in thirty-six days, I walked into my favourite bookstore, sheepish and unsure. I stepped through the doors of this hallowed space with care, taking in every corner, careful not to gorge myself. I couldn’t breathe it in, my mask a cruel device separating me from the thing that has led me here. I gazed at Austen, Shakespeare, Bronte, Poe and Hemingway, I could feel them whisper: ‘welcome home’. 

I ran my fingers through Melville and I felt a familiar sense of adventure. Everyone was here, the classics, biographies, fantasy. I see Rowling, Tolkien, Le Guin, Pratchett and there is Gaiman peeking through some Stardust. All these I have, I wanted something new, I came for something new. My fingers danced across many spines, waiting for the call. I have always had a sneaky feeling that a book chooses you, not you that chooses it.

When you choose a book it always takes a little while to get into it. Sometimes you choose a book because it’s recommended and you want to read it, and that’s good. But when a book chooses you, it’s like a magnet. Something you can’t explain tells you this book requires a home and it must be yours. It is curiosity born of fire, just like desire, you need, you must read it. It bares its soul to you and you have no choice but to let it in. 

That feeling, to be chosen by a book (or twelve) again, is what I ventured out into a changed and scarred world for. We live our lives in these Covid bubbles, hidden in our homes, hidden behind masks, waiting for the world to emerge from the shadow hoping that soon it will all stop burning. We wait and we adapt. We are afraid of how we touch, the very thing meant to bring us comfort, has been weaponized by an enemy we cannot see save for microscopes. So we seek happiness in short doses to assuage the ache and inferno inside. So when a book chose me, for the first time in thirty-six days, I felt peace and edges that burnt with desperation were aglow with hope and I was wrapped in joy.

For most, this is of course very nonsensical, how can a book do all that? Indeed, how can a book do all that? After All is it is just words bounded together by dead trees. Well, answer me this, why does a rainbow make you smile?