As I contemplate the early morning unfold through the flyscreen darkly from the bedroom window, I think of all those friends I have already left behind. They never had the chance to see this new world we now live in which, despite its many faults, has brought us many good things as well as the benefit of hindsight.
My best friend never saw a video or CD player, had only heard of fax machines and computers, and his only entertainment was a scratchy little transistor radio that he kept on top of the fridge in the kitchen. That and The Daily Telegraph were his only connection with the world.
Through my work alone, I had been more exposed to this new world of interconnectivity, and yet even I sometimes still marvel at how I went from the slide rule and a book of logarithms to a computer in my back-pocket, all in one lifetime. And now we are facing artificial intelligence as if our natural stupidity wasn't already giving us enough trouble.
At moments like these I seek the sanctuary of my cosy library which is still as I left it late last night, with the books by Geoffrey Blainey still under 'B' and just before Alain de Botton and Albert Camus and Joseph Conrad. In the 'G' section, Graham Greene has one whole shelf to himself, and more than half a shelf is reserved for Hermann Hesse, while W. Somerset Maugham's books take up more than two shelves.
Why can't life be as orderly and the same way I left it the night before? I guess, that's what my library is for: to give me the illusion that I am still in full control of my life even though it is madly spinning out of control.
Of course, I have separate sections for philosophy, business and economics, sailing and seamanship, and even a small collection of German books to keep me in touch with books I used to read before English became first my adopted and then my favourite language.
Apart from my childhood heroes Heinz Helfgen and Heinrich Harrer and books by Erich Kästner, I grew up with Heinrich Böll, Günter Grass and Erich Maria Remarque, to which I later added Hermann Hesse and Hans Fallada and Joseph Roth, and they are all still on my book shelves.
Travel books and books on languages and linguistics have their own home in the "Red House", and there's also a collection of books inside "Melbourne" to save me the decision of what book to take with me.
Don't tell Padma that I let you into my inner sanctum as even she isn't allowed in here. She'll WhatsApp me when breakfast is ready, and I may go across to the house to have it with her or bring it back here to eat surrounded by my friends, these hundreds if not thousands of books.
I have even been known to forget what time it is and to fall asleep in the library because, as they say, book lovers never go to bed alone.
Wait, I've just received a WhatsApp message. Breakfast must be ready!
