"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off -- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. "

H. Melville, Moby Dick

There, sums it up nicely, no?

But apart from the morose mood I feel these days, there is more to this plan.
It is becoming a pattern, a recurring thing: I long for a home to call mine, but I don't seem to ever feel home anywhere, at any account, not for long. May be I am more of a natural rolling stone than I thought, although admittedly I wish I could roll away with all my carefully hand painted furniture, and my garden and, most of all, my library.

I lived in Norway for some months in 1999, I remember the heartbreaking feeling of having to chose a mere handful of books to bring with me. And the deep deep joy of the reunion, when I went back to Italy, and in my room, all my books twinkled and winked to me through a thin layer of dust, waiting, welcoming. I felt my brain could expand again. I love the feeling of having to only stretch a hand behind me, to the bookshelf, to pore over the familiar words of my favourite authors, pick a fitting quote, get lost in the flow. Once again. I am a re-reader of books. My favourites are steady friends, that I meet regularly. That is why I generally wish to own them, physically, in a paper incarnation.

If my library is home, then I am in deep **** here: how many books can I possibly pack on one of the Shuttles, among firebox, camping cooking implements, sleeping bags, tent, winter clothes, summer clothes, water canisters, Eric's dulcimer, cat transporting case (we will come to this), assorted tools, watercolour kit, rainproof tarps and foldable buckets, spare tires, spare horse boots, food supplies, inflatable mattresses, and... and...

Well, you get the idea.

The world of books is divided in two main categories to me. Books that I use mainly for reference, and books that are deeply, emotionally "home". Books where I can curl in, and be at peace, whatever may be storming outside. Of these "The Lord of the Rings" is one, as you may have guessed by now. "Possession", by A. S. Byatt is another. The Aubrey-Maturin series is the third big pillar of my paper castle. Now, "The Lord of the Rings" is a mighty tome in any edition, but the paperback I will surely fit somewhere. "Possession", too. Jack and Stephen... now, there's a problem. 20 and 1/2 books. I have a complete edition, divided in 5 tomes, in a box, that is probably the slimmest available, but is still a terrific lump of luggage. By the weight of it one would never believe that it is made of paper. After all the specific weight of paper is not supposed to be comparable to that of lead. It is the density of words in it that creates a little black hole in the universe, I am sure of it. I could probably fit weels under the box, and trail it after the cart. It is probably massive enough to carry some luggage of its own. However tempting the idea may be, I fear a different solution is needed. E-books? Audio-books? It's not the same, I know, But it will have to do.

I had not set out to write about books today. I had intended to reason about home and homeless-ness and exhile. Duh! Curious how such a theme immediately brings up books to my mind.