I am reminded of the nursery rhyme about the old woman who lived in a shoe…and the joke oft told about how lucky she was to have a shoe to live in. It’s easily done if you acquire books on a regular basis, seldom discard any and are lucky enough to live into your mid-fifties…. At one point early in the book Hodkinson describes the gulf between him and Virginia Woolf and her plea for a space in A Room of One’s Own. It is not just about books though, it is about his take on life and is full of the happy and sad memories he still carries with him.

but I really wanted to read the main narrative, and then another grandad section would appear, which I would try not to skim before resuming the thread.Most people experience this or similar and the pain is such that, in many different ways, they make preparations so that it either doesn’t happen again, and that can go as far as avoiding future relationships altogether, or setting down to themselves a clearly defined coping mechanism.

The love of and consequent hoarding of books eventually drives Hodgkinson to seek some answers from Lisa, a psychiatrist. A book left in a room, ready to be picked up or among others in a bookcase, is a symbol of downtime to come, a respite. The final endnotes are great fun with examples of books he owns with inscriptions and bookplates and descriptions off what the numerous TBR piles contain in his house. Highly recommended for anyone who likes reading about other people’s relationship with books and stories (which I do). Without spoiling it really, I will suffice to say that this book triples as a personal memoir, a kind of history of literature, and also a love song to books and the passion of reading.

To be clear… I don’t know the author, but it took no time at all to work out that I grew up poor ( we couldn’t afford the school trips he went on) within walking distance of him. They are a quiet, meditative pleasure, a necessary antidote to the clang and clamour of everything else happening within the average household. His theory that you shouldn't read anything you don't immediately like (and in fact should judge a book only on its first page) would never see anyone challenged and would just be boring (I certainly wouldn't have got very far with his book).

Ultimately, however, there are too many elements and the novel-memoir-cultural-history-becomes confused. I may not have time to read all the books I own, but I am glad they are there and hope to get to as many as possible. I don't remember the Rochdale Cowboy though I do remember Strangeways hotel)- he references the former in a footnote i'm relieved to say- and that as a namby pamby southerner I Cannot claim to be northern. A resounding defence of the physical book and the thankless enthusiasts who bring it into existence .He’d mumble to himself and become fastidious; counting his money, checking through bills and insurance policies. Then the memoir element begins, a running thread that describes Hodkinson's relation to his schizophrenic grandfather.

Life, much as we try to keep it at arm’s length or delude ourselves that it falls under our dominion, often ‘blindsides you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday’. On balance his life seemed fairly uneventful but the micro accounts of books and that relationship is very well done. Mark Hodkinson grew up among dark satanic mills in a house with just one book: Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain. From an early age he loved to read, which was viewed with great suspicion by most of his family and friends. It adds a sad and melancholy note to the book, but it reminds us that he has not always had the easiest path through life working as a rare northern-based publisher.But I am a reader and self proclaimed bibliophile; have lived as far north as Sheffield and do worry about having too many books. Hodkinson outlines his dilemma with an opening story about a recent house move and the need to transport all those books. It’s an autobiography with parallel sections talking about his grandfather and his life and how it effected the author and his Mum. As they walk through the Lake District chomping on apples, “I half expected him to suggest a game of hide and seek”. This is yet another one of those delightful books about books, but it’s obviously about a lot more than that too, class, culture, aspiration and life’s vicissitudes are also explored in pleasing detail too.