In the unhurried days of my youth, when mobile technology was only just beginning to dictate the rhythm of our lives, I had the privilege of growing up in a home steeped in books. My parents would often speak of reading as “a dance of the imagination,” a phrase doubtless intended to guide my burgeoning interests toward pursuits of a higher nature. Whether by their design or my own inclinations, I came to regard myself as fortunate indeed, surrounded as I was by more volumes than I could ever truly give my attention to.
It was during my college years in Perth, Australia, that this fondness for books evolved into something more purposeful. One of my chief pleasures in those days was seeking out second-hand shops and markets, scouring them for literary treasures to fill the uneven shelves of my humble quarters. The bookcases themselves were often acquired from departing students, eager to part with their belongings in exchange for quick dollars. I had little else by way of material comforts—no television or computer to occupy my evenings. The only exposure I had to the latter was through an introductory computing course, but I was by no means unfamiliar with the concept, nor was I wanting. By then, weblogs like these were just as popular as they are now, and with the free time and exploratory ideas one would have as a curious mind, I’d had some experience and, to be honest, probably enough in crafting one of my own. It was the early semesters of college, after all, and my days and studies were still largely consumed by the tangible demands of art and design. It was a discipline at the time that thrived on the tactile, the physical—a pursuit that required the work of one’s hands as much as one’s mind. In that sense, the books I collected seemed a natural extension of this world, offering the weight and substance no glowing screen could hope to replicate.
But the act of collecting books wasn’t driven solely by their contents, though the words within were still of great interest. There was something more to it—a sense of calm and order that came from being surrounded by books. They were a steadying influence in a time that often felt uncertain, their presence a reminder of simpler moments unburdened by the cares of adulthood. By all accounts, I can say that my pride and joys were often those encyclopedic in nature. I can recall a time during the early years of secondary school when a single wooden plank mounted on the wall of my trite and rather boring quarters served as the sole home for my collection of Encyclopedia Britannica (which editions these were, I’m now unable to say; the years have obscured such details. Perhaps a return to the old home is due to unearth those unchanging companions).
And then I was sixteen, finding myself alone in a foreign country, navigating an education system as unfamiliar as the culture that surrounded me. The experience was, at times, daunting but never insurmountable. My resources were modest, sufficient for the necessities and little more, but they were enough to keep me steady. It was a time of quiet adaptation, where each challenge became an opportunity to learn not just about the world around me, but also about my own resolve. Largely due to this then had I turned my attentions to journals of history and anthropological studies, their prices greatly reduced due to their monotonous and unexciting nature. Though less imposing than the encyclopedias, these slim volumes carried their own value, offering much valued insights and a deeper understanding of the world. Stacked neatly in the well worn bookcases in the corners of my humble room, they became companions of sorts, their pages a balm for the anxieties of a youth very out of his place.
Thus passed the years—twenty, if one is inclined to count them. I find myself now employed in an educational establishment, occupying a role that straddles the line between creation and curation. In the making of books, my experiences in design are at last given purpose, applied to the careful balance of content and whitespace. The nostalgia of being surrounded by books remains undiminished, a quiet joy that has carried through the years.
Yet, recent shifts within departments and staff allocations have left me stationed in a room that can only be described as sterile—a space devoid of character or any sign of having been lived in, save for a solitary desk and chair. It is within these bare walls that I’ve resolved to begin anew, finding warmth and comfort in books rescued from the recesses of a department now so reduced it might as well be deemed obsolete. These hidden treasures, unearthed during the turbulence of change, hold a quiet triumph, a reminder that even in upheaval, something worthwhile may yet be found.
It is with no small delight that I present the beginnings of what I hope to be an extensive collection:
- European Sources for the History of the Sultanate of Brunei in the Sixteenth Century, 2nd Ed., Robert Nicholl
- The Origins of Malay Nationalism, W. R. Roff
- Modern China and Japan: A Concise History by Gwenneth and John Stokes
- Europe between Revolutions: 1815-1848 by Jacques Droz
- The Hadj: A Pilgrimage to Mecca, Michael Wolfe
- A Class-Book of The History of South-East, South & East Asia, HSC/GCE ‘A’ Level, 1966-1974, Preston
- Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddin III and Britain: The Making of Brunei Darussalam by B. A. Hussainmiya, Oxford
- The Certificate: History of Malaya, 1400-1965, P. C. Kon, Preston
- A Short History of Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei, C. Mary Turnbull