While The Kettle Boils

New Zealand Listener, Volume 4, Issue 83, 24 January 1941, Page 43

While The Kettle Boils

Dear Friends, To-day was my library day-which is entirely regulated by the number of extra minutes I can steal from every 24 hours. If they can be justifiably stolen, how much better to devote them then to reading an interesting book. Some people are voracious readers. They will do a book a day-sometimes more-with ease. And by some miracle they manage to retain a goodly portion in their memory. One man I heard of just recently, tied to his bed by some affliction of the spine, receives a packing case full of new books every week-end. By Monday they are exhausted. Of course, we all have different angles of approach toward books. Some read merely to kill time-others are only interested in the story angle. Many are interested chiefly in literary style and construction. To others still books are an. escape from reality; a dreaming place of the imagination where they can wander and tarry at will. To-day in the library, there was a friendly bustle of people fortifying themselves against the week-end. On Fridays I always develop a greed complex. I hunt for the fattest volume I can findalways provided it answers to the name of the author I may have in mind. A little fear always lurks at the back of my mind that I might be caught out before Monday arrives. A library is really a delightful place. You drift. Everyone drifts. There is no rush or bustle in a library. Even voices are lowered to suit that charming dillydallying mood. Outside a busy world whirls on its way, but within these walls is a serenity and peace. You surrender your old book, grip your ticket, and with a small inward sigh of satisfaction and expectation start on your round. Before you lie enchanted avenues of books. Hundreds of them in close-packed, serried ranks. From them all you may pick one»- or two. The choice and the moment are of supreme importance to you. Hidden among those shelves are stray literary treasure. It is almost like a game of blind man’s buff. Will you chance on one of these rare finds? You drift-and others drift with. you-shoulder to shoulder. Occasionally there is a collision-sometimes you step dreamily back on someone’s pet corn. But noblesse oblige seems to be the motto here. Everyone is sweetly goodtempered. Some people scan the titles of books. Personally, I never see a title. My eyes are glued on the author’s name beneath. When I have found my author I give the title of the book a glance. Just one of the distinctions among library devotees. As you wander round, you dream a little on words. Behind those stiff-backed covers, tens upon tens of thousands of words-in every conceivable flight of fancy, mood, and description. The unending miracle of words. You remember reading somewhere that Shakespeare possessed a vocabulary of 30,000 words. An average person is in possession of 3,000. A gulf of 27,000 words lies between. A likely book catches your eye. You tuck it under your arm and move on. You reflect with satisfaction that you need not decide till you have done your

round. Another book follows it-and still another. You begin to grow slightly anxious. It is not going to be so easy to decide, after all. Then right at the last shelf you see the book you have been waiting for-which has been eluding you for weeks. You grab it hastily -even greedily-before another hand can claim it-and with a free heart dart back to replace the other books. With the air of a conqueror, you pay your

twopence, hand in your ecard; and with the book making a warm spot against you, you hurry out. Another library day has come and gone. Yours cordially

Cynthia