It’s a good friend who brings a Bookwitch more books. Admittedly muttering the Swedish equivalent of ‘coals to Newcastle’ under her breath as she offered her pile of books to me.
And whereas I don’t need gifts, I can’t think of better ones than books.
In this case it’s both what the books are, as well as how they were come by. She has searched for them secondhand, until she found a copy of each of the three volumes in this very local (holiday local) historical trilogy about the hardships and adventures of the people who [might have] lived here four or five hundred years ago, when life was tough.
Another old friend talked about them when we were both in our early teens, and while she loved the books, I thought they sounded dreadfully boring.
These days there are performances (in promenade form, I believe) near where we spend our holidays, most summers, and they are tremendously popular. It will come as no surprise to you that I’ve never been…
Last year when my book-bringing friend let me read her own book on a similar topic, she mentioned how much she liked Albert Olsson‘s trilogy about local farmer Tore Gudmarsson (there is a road near us named after him), so I admitted my ignorance again.
And now she has spent all winter looking for copies for me. She apologised for them not being matching, but that surely is the charm of used books? They needn’t match. They just are. Besides, I suspect the odd one out might be a first edition. The other interesting thing about the books is that they appear to be published by one of the local bookshops.
So far I have tried the beginning of book one, Sand, and I have to admit it’s like pickled herring. Much better than I’d imagined.
The poor Resident IT Consultant – always keener on history than his wife – eagerly had a go, only to give up because they are too hard for him to read. Now, where’s a translator when you need one?