I Bloody Love Books
I bloody love books - not just for the stories they tell, but for the life they taught me how to live.
When my parents retired and moved from Darwin to Ballarat (yeah, that's a heck of a change of scenery and climate), the most critical issue at hand was how to move their collection of books. I recall Mum pondering the literally metre upon metre of bookcases, mostly custom-built to fit the Darwin house. Which is to say, they had A LOT of books, a library spanning back to the 1950s when they were married, and in some instances, even further back. Some of the books were inherited from their parents or acquired during their childhood.
The range of topics and subjects was broad. Books about colonial life in West Africa. The classics. Books about social issues. Books about travel. Academic studies. Books about everything!
Some of the bookcases had to be sawn in half or partially disassembled, but eventually all of them and their contents arrived in Ballarat, and most into the huge shed at the side of the new house. Rows of bookcases, some six feet or more tall, laden with books. You could walk up and down a couple of aisles, browsing the whole gamut of their collection.
Books as Constant Companions
One of the greatest gifts my parents bestowed was a love of books and reading. I was a dedicated reader as a child, and, as a teenager, I devoured adventure stories - Clive Cussler, Tom Clancy, and others of that ilk. More recently, I've pondered this love of escapist storytelling:
"I can see the pattern: loneliness wasn't my goal, but rather something I experienced that became both an obstacle to the exciting life I wanted and something I tried to transform into a heroic narrative. I seemed to be asking, 'If I'm going to be lonely anyway, can I at least be the romantic kind of lonely that leads to adventure and creativity?'"
My childhood saw me and my siblings shuttled between continents and schools - from Surrey to Darwin, back to English boarding school, Darwin again, then to Geelong - creating a baseline loneliness born of constant disruption. Each move severed friendships before they could properly form. Each new school meant starting over as the outsider, the pommy kid chewed by mosquitoes in Darwin, the kid from Australia who was unsurprisingly good at swimming when back in England.
In that pre-Internet era, when communications from boarding school came via weekly blue aerogram letters, maintaining connections across continents was nearly impossible. Relationships evaporated with each transition. But while human connections proved unreliable, books remained constant. When everything else in my world was in flux - houses, schools, friends, even climates - stories stayed the same.
I don’t think it was intentional, but in retrospect, my parents were modelling something crucial during those years when everything else kept changing. Reading, in our household, was presented as a worthy pursuit, a form of productive aloneness. It was showing me that solitude with a book in hand could be purposeful rather than imposed.
I loved that shed in Ballarat; for a time, I imagined I would have a similar collection, and over the years, I pursued the idea. I’ve always been a big book purchaser, and at one stage in my own house, we had several large bookcases full. Reading provides a sanctuary, a space where solitude feels generative rather than isolating.
Finding Purpose in the Stacks
In my late teens, I volunteered at the main library in Darwin City. It became my training ground for understanding the difference between isolation and useful solitude. What started as a place of refuge became a workplace where I learned that solitude could be actively valuable rather than passively endured.
If you checked out a book during my hours, it might have been me stamping the return date on the paper slip in the back. When some of the headphone connectors started to fail, I took my soldering iron in and made the necessary repairs. I shelved returns. I covered books in clear plastic. I suspect sometimes the staff were pushed to find jobs that needed doing. But they were always friendly and patient, and I hope they appreciated the contribution.
This transition from visitor to contributor was significant in ways I didn't fully appreciate at the time, of course. Some 40 years later, I now know it taught me that productive solitude often serves others, that being alone doesn't mean being disconnected from community purpose. When I sat at the front desk or shelved books, these were solitary tasks that supported other people's learning and discovery.
The pinnacle of my library assistant career came after I passed my driving test. The library service required a temporary courier to transport books between library branches. I was handed the keys to, from memory, a Datsun 180 - a car that was ancient even then. But I spent a very happy few weeks tootling between the branches with crates of books and other items - and even got paid. Quite likely my first ever pay cheque.
That courier job remains one of my happiest memories because it perfectly captured what I was learning about productive solitude. There I was, entirely alone for hours at a time, driving between libraries with cargo that connected people to knowledge. The work was solitary but meaningful. I was facilitating access to books and learning for others. The aloneness felt chosen and purposeful rather than imposed and empty.
Reading as Leadership
In my professional life, I have read a lot of business books. Typically, I order the paperbacks, rather than download to my Kindle. I keep sticky coloured page tags and a highlighter in my bag, and while away on plane rides, I read the books and mark passages that I find helpful or instructive. On several occasions, I've ordered copies of a book that has particularly captured my attention to distribute to my executive team at the company. The most satisfying and affirming moment is when one of the recipients replies that they already have that book.
These habits, formed in those library years, persist today because they represent the same principle: individual learning that serves a collective purpose. The ritual of reading and marking useful passages during flight time transforms what could be dead hours into productive solitude. When I distribute books to my team, I'm extending the gift my parents gave me - the understanding that learning is often a solitary pursuit that ultimately benefits everyone.
The Sanctuary of Chosen Solitude
The distinction between productive solitude and destructive isolation may be one of the most essential lessons a childhood like mine can teach. My early experiences of forced loneliness could have been purely damaging. Research shows that children who move frequently between schools and countries often struggle with mental health impacts that can last into adulthood.
But my parents' unintended modelling of purposeful solitude, combined with those library experiences, taught me to transform imposed isolation into chosen sanctuary. I learned that being alone with work, whether fixing headphone jacks or organising books, could be a form of community service.
When I became a parent myself, I was determined that my children would have the social stability I lacked. They attended the same schools for years, built lasting friendships, and developed deep roots in their community. My son still plays sports with kids he knew in primary school. My daughter maintains friendships spanning fifteen years. But I’ve also tried to instil in them a love for reading and books.
Libraries, I now understand, are sanctuaries not just because they're quiet, but because they model the highest form of solitude - chosen, purposeful, and ultimately generous. They're places where individual curiosity serves collective wisdom, where being alone doesn't mean being isolated from the human conversation but rather joining it more thoughtfully.
"A library is a place where you can lose your innocence without losing your virginity."
They're spaces where solo exploration leads to broader understanding, where chosen solitude becomes productive engagement.
The child who learned to be useful while alone, who discovered that fixing headphone jacks in a library was a form of community service, grew into an adult who understands that the best solitude isn't selfish retreat but preparation for better engagement. The hours I spent shelving books weren't hiding from the world - they were learning how to serve it more effectively.
Not all wounds become wisdom, but some do. That’s where books came in. The trick is learning to choose your aloneness rather than simply enduring it. Books taught me that lesson, and libraries provided the laboratory where I could practise transforming solitude from something that happened to me into something I could actively cultivate for growth, learning, and ultimately, service to others.
There's a profound difference between isolation imposed upon you and the sanctuary you create for yourself. The former feels empty and punishing; the latter feels generative and chosen. When solitude becomes productive rather than just protective, when being alone serves a broader purpose rather than just personal comfort, that's when you've learned one of life's most valuable skills.
I bloody love books - not just for the stories they tell, but for the life they taught me how to live. They showed me that the right kind of aloneness isn't absence of connection but preparation for deeper, more meaningful engagement. And that shed full of books in Ballarat? It is no more. Eventually, Mum and Dad downsized to a much smaller home, and now even that is gone. The book collection was gradually downsized as well, and now only a tiny handful of books remain. But even now it’s gone, I still have that shed library image in my mind, as a reminder that time spent alone with ideas is never time wasted.