Confession of a Book Collector

I love books. I'm passionate about them. I can't imagine myself without a book in hand — even if I’m not reading it. Just having one in my bag brings me comfort.

"I may need it," I often reason with myself. On a bus or commuter train, if I’m seated, I’d rather turn pages than stare at the passenger opposite me. I know I’m not the only one like this — and that’s why I created this little corner called “A Passion for Books.”

A Family Affair
My dream? To one day own a secondhand bookshop. Not to sell books — I don’t think I could bear parting with them — but to share them, to let people wander among them. I want to watch them grow, my collection.

Not for money, but for meaning. My father was a book collector. His father, a bookbinder. It's in my blood. Every time we stepped into a bookshop, my father would leave with at least one book. I’ve inherited that habit — and all of his books too. Once, he asked me, “What would you like to inherit from me?”

Without hesitation, I replied, “All your books!” From a young age, we were taught to respect our books. If a page was torn, vandalised, or creased, it was close to a sin. My father used to say, “Let’s open a secondhand bookshop — a father and daughter venture.”

What a fantastic idea. But life got in the way. I shelved the dream, unsure where to begin. Lately, though, I feel a stronger pull. I sit in my library, surrounded by his books and his memory, and I hear his voice.

“Do something about it,” it says.

The Joy of Owning
I buy a lot of books. I stack them everywhere. It's not always about reading them immediately. It’s about owning them. Sometimes, a book will call out to me from a shelf and refuse to leave my mind.

I must have it — or I won’t sleep in peace. Even at home, I’ll still be thinking about that book. It’s the missing piece in an already growing collection — even if we both know collections are never truly complete.

And maybe that’s the beauty of it: the thrill of the chase. Sometimes, I read just one chapter, even one page — and that’s enough. I always tell myself: "One day, when I’ve got nothing else to do, I’ll read this book cover to cover."

More Than Just Paper
Why do I collect books? I don’t have a single honest answer. It’s like asking someone why they collect paintings, furniture, or vintage china. There’s no logic, only love. My collection is a mix of everything — fiction, nonfiction, historical epics, scientific journals, mysteries, cookbooks, thrillers, self-help guides. How do I choose? Budget comes first, of course.

But mostly, it's a matter of mood. My husband still doesn’t know what to get me for birthdays. After more than ten years of marriage, he’s finally given up. "Here’s the budget. Buy what you love."

So I go straight to the bookstore, pile up my choices, and when I get home, I place the books in front of him and say: "Sign them for me. ‘To my beloved wife…’ and don’t forget the date.”

Bookstore Adventures
I don’t have one favourite bookstore.I do the usual rounds — MPH, Times, Borders — but I’m always on the lookout for that something different. That spark. A shop that calls out to me with its shelf of odd treasures. When I find one, I enter like a detective in a mystery novel. I investigate, linger, take notes in my journal under the heading: “New Discovery” — the shop’s name, address, and the gems I found.

And before I leave, I say softly, “I’ll be back.” My current favourite is Silverfish, tucked away in Bangsar, Kuala Lumpur.

Gold vs Paperbacks
Once, my cousin showed off a gold pendant. "My boyfriend gave me this," she beamed, flaunting her hand. I nodded politely.

Then I said, “Wait here,” and ran to my study. I returned with two heavy books: Anatomy & Physiology and a Nursing Dictionary, both gifted to me by my then-boyfriend, now husband. I was just a trainee then — those books were expensive, out of my reach. But he knew they mattered to me. They meant more than diamonds ever could. He signed them, of course — and dated them. Today, they sit proudly in my library, holding not just knowledge, but memories of our early days.

How I Choose
Someone once asked me, “How do you decide what to buy in a bookshop? Do you head straight for the ‘Latest Arrivals’?” Not really. It depends on my mood. Sometimes, I just stop at the door, breathe it all in, and wait to be drawn to a corner. Books, I swear, are like pets in a shop. They sit there, staring at you, whispering, “Take me home…” You hate having to choose. But you must. That’s life. You hope the one you leave behind will still be there when you return. Books talk to you. They transport you — to the past, the future, the unknown. If you’re brave enough to listen, they’ll show you entire worlds. You don’t just read a book. You merge with it.

And So…
​This is my confession. And perhaps, you have one too.