In my novel Indiscretion, it is the power of heredity that pushes the heroine, Alexandra, to return to the place of her birth: Spain. She has lost her mother, and is estranged from her father and now, in her twenties, she has been feeling unsettled. She reads this poem by Thomas Hardy:

I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.

The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye
Despise the human span
Of durance – that is I;
The eternal thing in man,
That heeds no call to die

The first lines speak to her, and she thinks:

Perhaps it was time to listen to the quiet voice inside urging her on; time to acquaint herself with her own ‘heredity’. The exotic allure of her homeland had always been undeniably potent. Would she discover the missing piece of herself there?

With heredity on my mind, I was very moved by a piece in the New York Times recently on the subject, as it relates to the passing on of books.

In his article ‘In a Mother’s Library, Bound in Spirit and in Print’, Nick Bilton gives a poignant account of how prominently books featured in his relationship with his mother:

As I grew up, my mother held my hand as we wandered through the fictional worlds of Harper Lee, Charles Dickens and Lewis Carroll. Birthdays and Christmases were always met with rectangular-shaped gifts.

And every book in our home was inscribed with a pithy note from my mother. ‘Dear Nick. Never live without beautiful books. Love Mum,’ she scribbled into a copy of ‘War and Peace.’

But a few years ago, he explained, they got into an argument over books, when he gave up much of his printed book collection in favour of a Kindle. Over time, he tried to persuade his mother to join the digital revolution, by giving her an ereader, but she barely used it.

Then his mother died, and she left her 30,000 printed books to her daughter. Finally, Nick realised how much those printed books meant to him, and how little his mother’s Kindle did now.

Suddenly, his mother’s argument on the importance of reading in print gained new meaning:

She spoke passionately about being able to smell the pages of a print book as you read, to feel the edges of a hardcover in your hands. And that the notes left inside by the previous reader (often my mother) could pause time.

Heredity. It matters. And printed books can have a part to play in that. Holding a book in your hands that your ancestors once read forms a powerful connection between you and them. You can occupy the same place together; time ceases to have meaning. Even better are those books containing dedications – treasures to hold on to.

The article certainly gave me cause to think. I looked at my own bookshelves and recognised that the books most important to me fall into two categories: those that were passed down to me from the family, and those I hold on to with the intention of passing them down to my children and grandchildren someday.

Of course, I read ebooks. But this idea of heredity reinforces my belief that the books that matter, the books that are a part of you, that define you, must exist in print. My ideal home library is one which contains only the books I most love, that have meaning to me. With this in mind, I embrace the ereader for its convenience and as a means of discovering books; but then, when I do discover a new gem, I buy it in print and put it on the shelf.

How about you? Do you have printed books you treasure, that were passed down to you or that you would pass on? Do you see a future without print, entirely digital, or do you think we must protect the printed book for the sentiment and meaning embodied within it? I would love to know your perspective.