*Please note this review contains light spoilers*

Late in his memoir, Hodkinson books himself into see two therapists to confirm that he is a bibliophile and not a bibliomaniac. Although it had never occurred to me to worry about the distinction, I found myself relieved to be cleared of bibliomania via Hodkinson (“bibliomania is a mental illness with an inventory of established symptoms: an overwhelming desire to collect books irrespective of genre, subject or author; amassing multiple copies of the same book; and hoarding them randomly…”). However, that also made me realize because I’ve carefully cultivated all of my books and actually want to read them the struggle will be in having enough time. But then I realized worrying about that just wastes time that could be spent reading so I turned the page and kept going.

Hodkinson’s book is a bit of a hodge-podge of his life as a reader, a writer, a student, and a member of his family but as I mentioned in the “The Book Journal May 2022” post, it makes for a more natural memoir as you follow his story through themes and thoughts rather than a strict timeline. The family history and discussion of mental illness both with one of his childhood friends and his grandfather is thoughtful and very loving without hiding the pain those struggles can cause. His discussion of the successes and failures in his professional life are honest and measured. But his discussion of what it means to him to be a reader and collector is the highlight for me as a fellow reader and collector. Hodkinson is a very different collector from me, and in many ways a different reader (his love of sports books and his lack of fear over dropping a paperback in the bathtub come to mind) but the similarities are just as strong. Books making your childhood less lonely is a big one. His realization at the very start of the book that he has a large collection of books and he loves it just as it’s caught in a rainstorm (don’t worry it survives) speaks to moments in my life (also involving moving house and putting things in boxes). Hodkinson covers all of it and more and does it with attention to detail, humor, and honesty that are vital to making a memoir enjoyable.  

He’s honest about his passions – J. D. Salinger, sports memoirs, and music history being the top of the list – but he doesn’t sneer at what’s not for him and although his disappointment in Jane Austen’s works is a mystery to me, I agree wholeheartedly with his wish to read Salinger’s For Esmé – with Love and Squalor “every day and twice on a Sunday.” He clearly loves to talk about books – why else would you write a whole book about it? – but he also loves the solitude and that is perhaps the most relatable aspect of his work. The section where he describes a budding interest in Christianity – more for the community and social support offered than the religion – being replaced with reading after being blown away by The Catcher in the Rye is a moment all readers will recognize:

“…I had found tranquility: me and a book and the quiet. I was also animated and excited, lit up by these characters, these places, this feeling. And all this could happen while you were sitting in a chair, away from the world, wholly yourself and not having to speak to anyone or consider what they thought about you or expected from you. The peace of it.”

That is the magic of reading.