Books have always been a big part of my life. All you have to do is look at my bookshelf in Cape Town to know this. It is filled with the books that I have accumulated over the years, or at least the favourites. Every so often, my mother insists that I do a thorough Spring Clean which involves the giving away of old clothes and old books to some hospice or another. It's not really that I mind giving things away. It's just that my books hold memories for me. Even the ones that I haven't opened for years and years have a special place in my heart. The ones that are falling apart are particularly special. They might look like trash, but they are the ones that have been thoroughly pored over time and time again.

When I moved from Grahamstown to Cape Town, I came bearing many boxes of clothing, laundry, notes and other things that I had accumulated in four years of studying at Grahamstown. And I came bearing at least one box filled with books. Of course, on trying to unpack all  of my stuff, I realised that it was never all going to fit into my room, and decided for myself that a thorough Spring Clean was in order. I think that it was the most penetrating Spring Clean I had ever done. A good 50% of my clothes were thrown into plastic bags and at least two boxes of books were sent away for donation - books that I had bought with the full intention of reading and had lost interest in; books that I had read but weren't worth a second read; childrens books that were good, but not classics to be kept for the children. When I was finished, I looked at my bookshelf and it felt empty, as though a part of myself had been thrown away in the process. But it wasn't empty for long.

There is an amazing bookstore in Seapoint called Cafda (in fact, there is a second one in Claremont, but I have never been there, so have no clue where it is). It doesn't look anything special from the outside, but make your way in there and you will find yourself lost in a myriad of books - you can find anything ranging from fiction to non- for as little as R5 or as much as R50 (I can't remember ever seeing a book in there for more than that.) It is a charity shop, all the books being donated and all the proceeds going towards AIDS orphans. I would go into the store at least once a week and leave with no less than three books each time. By the time I was ready to leave South Africa, my bookshelf was filled once more, and this time it was filled with books that I wanted to, no... NEEDED to, read. Khaled Hosseini, Salman Rushdie, Lionel Shriver, Milan Kundera, David Eggers and a number of authors I didn't even know, lined my bookshelves and stared me down, begging me to open them up. I had placed them in an order - alternating humorous and serious, alternating authors, alternating themes. I had a plan for how I would read them, and every time a new book was added, my plan was altered accordingly. I wouldn't just put it on the end (though the time of its arrival was included in my decision making process). I would consider how much I wanted to read it, which books I wanted to read more, which ones didn't seem quite as important; which ones Michael would want to read first, which ones I would want to read before Michael; which book I was reading at the moment, and how it fit in line with that book (was the one I was reading humorous? Was the next one serious?) It was a very detailed process.

And then I got the call. I had just over a week left in South Africa. I  looked at the books on my shelf, at least 35 new ones now, and realised that there was no way in hell I was going to finish them all. I only had 30kgs to take with me on the plane. I was going to have to leave most of them behind. Ten, I decided. I  would take ten books with me. I chose the ten carefully and started packing my suitcase around them. But alas, my bag was too heavy. No matter how many frivolous items of clothing and pairs of shoes I removed, it wasn't enough. More of my precious books would have to stay behind. I ended up whittling it down to four.

A Thousand Splendid Suns - Khaled Hosseini
Recipes for a Perfect Marriage - Kate Kerrigan
Shalimar the Clown - Salman Rushdie
The Man Who Ate the 747 - Ben Sherwood

Within the first weekend of arriving in Cheongju, I sailed through the first two books, hardly stopping for air. I had no TV (or at least, no English TV), no computer and I was stuck in a city that I didn't know with no way of contacting the few people that I had already met. I started Shalimar the Clown, but didn't make it far before the Internet arrived in my apartment, and I was able to entertain myself in other ways. The books I still had to read were left to burn a hole in my bookshelf.

About two months after I arrived in Korea, I went with a friend to Seoul, and we found ourselves in a bookshop. I had been avoiding Korean bookshops, having heard that the English selections were pitiful. This was an exception. I sauntered down the aisles and found many of the books that were sitting on my shelf back home, and ones that I had been searching for, but was unable to find. I had to hold myself back and stop myself from spending a small fortune. I only bought three that day, but they were three that I had been wanting to read for years:

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time - Mark Haddon
The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

Reading quickly became my bus activity. I realised that the bus trips between cities were the ideal time for reading - I had a couple of hours to spare and reading on the bus didn't make me feel ill. My only other options for entertainment were music (which could often be listened to while reading) and sleeping (how boring!) I thundered through Haddon, sauntered through Salinger, and was just getting into Lee when another friend introduced me to "What the Book" in Itaewon, Seoul. I quickly fell in love with the new and secondhand bookstore. While their filing system for their secondhand books (arranged according to the first letter of the authors surname, but with no order alphabetical or otherwise thereafter) frustrated me to no end, finding a book that you wanted became as exciting as finding a treasure. I ran around the shop, gasping or squeaking on finding a new author that I wanted.
"Rushdie!"
"Ooh, Saramago!"
"They have Hornby!"
"MITCHELL!:" (This particular one was almost certainly followed by a squeal.)
I left that first day, clutching two books:

Number 9 Dream - David Mitchell
The Enchantress of Florence - Salman Rushdie (though I had not opened Shalimar the Clown since my first attempt, my faith in Rushdie had not been shaken.)

On my next visit, I managed to keep it down to only one, the last of a series of books that I have, I am slightly embarrassed to admit, been indulging in for years:

Shopaholic and Baby - Sophie Kinsella

This was all, I told myself. This was the last book I was buying for a long while. My small bookshelf was already starting to creek under the weight of my teaching books and lesson plans, and I needn't add any more strain to it with my fetish for fiction. But then I was convinced, a couple of weeks ago, to buy yet another, from a shop in Gwangju this time. Though I was tempted to buy even more, I kept it to a minimum, only buying the one:

Wicked - Gregory Maguire


 It only recently dawned on me the problem that I will have trying to get all of these books home, for they are ones I feel that I cannot abandon. These books will join my bookshelf upon my arrival in Cape Town, and each one will hold a memory for me. I will look at Hosseini and Kerrigan and remember the lonely first weekend spent in bed, wondering why in God's name I had chosen to come here. I will look at Haddon and think of the trip back to Cheongju from Incheon, a freshly bought secondhand guitar lying at my feet. I will look at Salinger and think of sitting on the Busan sand, indulging in his words while the sun set and sipping on an awful vodka and lemonade drink which I believe is called KGB or something along those lines.

Each book, as I make my way through it, will attach itself to a memory in my mind, and whenever I will look at them in passing, I will have a glimpse of my time here. Because books are more than just pages of meaningless words after all.