I have become enamoured of my kindle, bought last summer in a belated attempt to get digitally savvy. And better prepared for travel. Just think of it – thousands of books, potentially, in one sleek little gadget. I could certainly have done with it when I was in China a couple of years ago. Six months in Hong Kong saw the inevitable accumulation of books that I could not take with me when I moved on to Shanghai, and I had to donate most of them to a second-hand bookshop, The Book Attic, in Wanchai (which has subsequently moved to Central). I dread to think what the excess baggage charge would have been.

Some of those books are not yet available as ebooks, though, and I do miss them. It got me thinking about book collections as a statement: books that say something about their owners, books that chart their owner’s journey. Books that show visitors how interesting, arty, scientific, quirky (insert your adjective of choice) you are. It’s not that easy to do with a kindle.

It’s a thought that was reinforced by my Christmas visit to my family in Italy. My Mum’s book collection has long been a thing of wonder, amassed over decades of travel and unlikely adventures. Perusing its oddities is a favourite activity whenever I stay.

There are books in Italian and English and French; books on Magritte and Degas, Slovenia and Berlin. There are German dictionaries and Italian encyclopaedias, a book on colloquial Arabic and a book devoted to the Spanish subjunctive. There is everyone from Douglas Adams to Stephen King, Umberto Eco to Alessandro Baricco, Thackeray to Dickens, Shakespeare to Maupassant. There are some others I particularly recognise – like Christopher Koch’s The Year of Living Dangerously, which I bought in Sydney some years ago and has since been recycled through the family. I took advantage of the opportunity for a re-read. See my review here.

The books have been thinned out a bit since my parents’ move but what remains is as eclectic as ever, especially with my brother Max’s international relations books added to the mix.  My contribution includes a book on China’s Terracotta Army and Robert Graves’ Greek Myths.

It was Sherry who first introduced me to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, for which she can be forgiven much. During my first visit, back when Sherry and Carlo first moved to Friuli, One Hundred Years of Solitude was the only book she had in English, and it became mine for the summer. I’m glad to see it’s still there, distinctly dog-eared now, but well-loved.

Most of my books are currently in storage, awaiting sufficient space (another advantage of the kindle!). I’m looking forward to the day when I can unpack them and set about re-reading some of my favourites. While I’m enthusiastic about the digital revolution in publishing, and the many exciting opportunities it affords for both writers and readers, I remain attached to the dear old dead-tree variety of book. I’ve read a lot of pieces in the blogosphere championing one form or the other, but I think there’s room for both.