Many years ago, when I was sharing a flat, my flatmate got himself a gig as part of a crew to sail a yacht from Sydney to the Philippines.
Before he set out, he asked if he could borrow one of my books to take with him and could I recommend something. I gave him Paul Theroux’s “Happy Isles of Oceania”, and off he went.
And, a few weeks later, back he came. As did my book. A little the worse for wear, dog-eared cover, broken spine, pages yellowed from exposure to the elements, smelling of the sea, of salt, you wouldn’t pay fifty cents for this book from a market stall.
I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all. It was still in one piece. It could still be read. It was still a “book”. And back on the shelf it went. With all the other books.