My local supermarket recently introduced a shelf where you can donate your unwanted books and if a passer-by fancies the look of one, they pop a quid in the charity tin and take the book home. I think it’s a really lovely idea and every week I check the shelf to see if there’s anything new I’d like to take home (even though I have many unread books waiting for me!)
On my last few visits, I’ve noticed a faded copy of One Day by David Nicholls has been hanging about the shelf, waiting for someone to choose it. One Day is one of my favourite books and, for some reason, I felt personally attacked that no one felt the same pull to the book that I once did. Yes, the book was slightly worn but for one pound they would get to experience the wonderful story of Emma and Dexter. Why weren’t they leaping across Tesco to grab it?! I do realise that this reaction is a bit ridiculous; just because I love the book, it doesn’t mean that every shopper in the supermarket will. I shouldn’t be offended. But somehow, I was. I’ve mentioned before that One Day is a favourite of mine and I think there’s many layers to why that is. I read the book at a time when my life was moving into some version of adulthood; a time when I was realising that I had been underestimated or misunderstood by my school peers for many years and I had so much ahead of me, which was both scary and exciting. I was at that age where you’re a bit unsure of who you are but you sort of know the direction you want to go in. I had read many books before One Day but as soon as I started reading, it quickly became clear that I related to the character of Emma more than any other character I had ever read. I remember being shocked by the symmetry as I’d often hear people talk about how deeply they relate to characters but I’d never experienced it on that level until then. I completely empathised with her vulnerabilities, frustrations and desires so much that, even though it’s one of my favourite books, I’ve only read it once (and because that famous twist ruined me.) Books are odd in that they are largely written by, and the idea of, one person and then they just hope that the story resonates with other people. Books aren’t a compilation of multiple peoples’ outlooks and feelings, yet each reader will take on that book and it will feel like theirs in a way that they can’t imagine anyone else feeling. Which is why I was so upset when no one wanted to take Emma and Dexter home with them. I suppose it is testament to Nicholls that I feel so strongly about a book I have only read once; that’s a kind of magic few writers manage to conjure and one I can only hope to emulate myself. So, if you do find yourself in Tesco and there’s a battered copy of One Day on its shelf, take pity on me, pop a pound in the charity tin and take it home!
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