An Irishwoman's Diary

RECENTLY, someone asked me what was the highlight of mychildhood. It was not a question I had ever thought about before,but when asked, I had an immediate, instinctive answer. It was thetransformative day I learned to read, a memory that remains utterlyclear, and is the closest experience of magic I've ever had.

There were always books in our house, and someone or other in myfamily always had their head bowed over one. But for the only personin the house who could not read - me - these books were mysteriousand frustrating entities.

At the little Montessori school I went to in a church hall, ourenlightened and marvellous teacher encouraged children to teach eachother in turn what they had learned. She matched one child who knewhow to read or write with one who could not yet do so. Thus it was aboy who had already learned to read who patiently sat with me atintervals as we worked through our "A is for Apple" primer. I don'tknow what age either of us were then, but the school took onlychildren from three to five, so my literacy teacher can have been nomore than five. I longed to read. I stared at pictures anddesperately tried to connect the images with the words and linesthat went with them. They wouldn't fuse.

My older siblings belonged to the local library and let me trailalong with them sometimes. My sister chose my books; all pictures,with no text. One day, I took down a small hardback with a pictureof a boy, a cardboard box and a pet white mouse on the cover. It wascalledOne White Mouse. I knew this because my sister told me. It wasa proper story book, mostly text, with only a few black and whiteillustrations scattered over the pages inside.

She protested my inability to read the book, but checked it outfor me anyway. I sat with the book all afternoon, turning the pages,looking at the cover, looking inside again. And then, suddenly,miraculously, incredibly - the words untangled from their opaqueknots and became clear, distinct, legible. I understood what theymeant. I read a sentence, and then a page. I put the book down andran round the house shouting, "I can read!" with a fierce joy. Iwill never forget that euphoria, that catalyst into another world.

One White Mousewent back to the library, but since then, therehave been many, many other books. I started in childhood to keep thebooks I loved best, and ever since, have continued to do so. Theyhave followed me around the world and through my many moves, theyhave waited in attics and in spare rooms to be retrieved, and lastyear, 38 boxes of them spent eight months in storage in a Dublinwarehouse while my new home was being renovated.

Collectively, my books contain my past. I've never had a camera,and loathe being photographed, and thus have no pictures of any lifeevents, but my books are my aide-memoir. Nothing evokes life under10 to me like the old yellow Puffin editions of Edith Nesbit'sFiveChildren and It, and The Phoenix and the Carpet, Philippa Pearce'sMinnow on the SayandTom's Midnight Garden, Laura Ingalls Wilder'spioneering stories (written, I now know, with help from herdaughter) and my battered box set of Narnia chronicles, inheritedfrom my brother.

Every book has a history. In most of them, I have written thedate and place of purchase, and to open the flyleaf is to be carriedback in time. I hate lending books, and the only people I will nowloan to are my mother and sister. I still regret loaning to a friendmy beloved copy of Angela Carter's Nights at the Circus, which nevercame back. Replacement copies are not the same. They don't have yourhistory layered into them, the imprint of your fingers on theirpages.

I missed my books terribly when they were in storage. I wouldautomatically reach out to refer to something and then remember theywere boxed in crates on the other side of the M50. I missed theirfamiliar spines, their touchstone quality, their heft in my hand.When I started opening the boxes last week, it was like meetingfriends I had literally been collecting all my life. I feltinexplicably happy when they were installed on shelves again.

I don't have an iPod, an eReader, or an iPhone.

Some day I'll replace my netbook with an iPad, and I never wantto cut myself off from new experiences, so I'm sure I will readbooks in digital format in some situations - when travelling,probably. Meanwhile, my real, three-dimensional books will alwayshave a space on my shelves.

The one book I have not found again in all my years of scouringsecondhand shops, and latterly, the internet, is the first book Iever read, One White Mouse. I keep looking for it, but I have notyet rediscovered that book. It appeared in my life, did itstransformative magic, and perhaps appropriately, vanished again -but some day, I hope to find a copy.