In Praise of the Battered Paperback
Old books are the heart of my childhood. While I was growing up, we had more books in the house than we had furniture. The walls were shelved in hardbacked books; there were books under the beds, on the floor; stacked under a tablecloth to make a coffee-table. I spent my pocket-money on books, working out how many I could afford to buy with my weekly allowance. If I went onto the market, I could buy second-hand paperbacks by the yard for the price of a can of Coke, and although my mother disapproved of paperbacks in general, I read these avidly, in any genre from science fiction to romance; from spy novels to hardboiled mysteries.
Pulp fiction has had a mixed reputation over the years. Despised by the kind of reader who feels that only hardbacks are āserious,ā mass-market paperbacks are often assumed to be less worthwhile, even trashy. And yet the books I loved the most were all mass-market paperbacks. Books with split spines, held together with tape; books with creased covers, bent pages. Books that have been read in the bath, swollen to three times their size. Books jammed into back pockets, or sneaked into bed with a flashlight. Books that have been re-read a dozen times, as familiar and as comforting as a favourite pair of sneakers.
Some people never re-read a book. I have never understood this. Much as I love discovering new things, I am a great re-reader of books, especially when I need something friendly and unchallenging. And I am a great believer in exploring different media: the rise of e-books and audiobooks have made books more widely accessible, especially to those who find the printed page a challenge. I have a Kindle, which is very useful when Iām travelling, although Iād never take it to the beach, or try to read it in the bath. And of course, I own plenty of hardbacks, too. But hardbacks are seldom comforting. Hardbacks may be beautiful, like carefully chosen objets dāart: but they are often too large to large to handle easily; too precious to be carried around. Hardbacks are teachers, professors, role models, even idols, but paperbacks are equals; friends. Paperbacks are always there at the best and worst of times. In times of plenty, buy them new: in times of need, buy them cheaply from market stalls and charity shops. As a child, I loved Rider Haggardās jungle epics; Willard Priceās Adventure series; Enid Blytonās mysteries. As an adolescent I discovered Stephen King, P.G. Wodehouse, Douglas Adams, John Mortimer, Ramsey Campbell, Georgette Heyer. I still have a whole shelf of these authors, books that I like to read in the bath: I know them almost by heart, which means that I can pick them up or put them down at will. And it means that however tired I am, or how many life challenges I am facing, my friends are always waiting to help relieve the pressure, like a pair of comfortable shoes.
When Iām signing at festivals, I love the well-read copies best. The copies that have been passed on from parent to child; the ones that have travelled all over the world. People sometimes apologize for not bringing a brand-new copy, but I take it as a compliment if theirs is battered and distressed. When I was 21, Roger Zelazny came to sign in a fantasy bookshop in Leeds, I handed him (rather nervously) my copy of Nine Princes in Amber, and he smiled and said: āYouāve been reading this in the bath, havenāt you, hon?ā It was the nicest thing he could possibly have said. Because books are meant to be loved, not displayed; not stored in plastic wrappers.
Of course, the rise of the e-book, with all its shiny new innovations, may mean the slow death of the paperback. That doesnāt mean the death of the book: books remain books, whether they come to us in physical or virtual form. But in the tale, the offer of ānew lamps for old,ā turns out to be a bad bargain. Itās hard to find magic in hardware. And a physical book can be read and passed on: an e- book is only ever on loan. Our libraries of e-books will die with us, unlike the books we hope to pass on. Yesterday, at my motherās house, I found her going through a pile of old books that had belonged to my father. Some dictionaries in German; some books on gardening and history. And a little stack of paperbacks with lurid pulp-fiction covers: my father always had a love of spy thrillers and Westerns. āI donāt know what he saw in those,ā my mother said. āTheyāre terrible.ā
Perhaps they were. But I took them home, each one neatly marked with his initials on the inside flap. Some are in German, some in French (as if my father needed the excuse of improving his language skills to read the things he really enjoyed.) And they smell of tobacco, and autumn leaves, and the pages are filled with memories. And yes, perhaps theyāre terrible. But they are also marvellous; little slices of vanished time. My father died of Alzheimerās, leaving the unfinished paperback heād been trying to read for over three years on his bedside cabinet, as if he hoped Iād finish it. And yes, this year, perhaps I will. Until then, it will live in my shed, where I keep all my favourite things. I think my father would approve. Ā


















