I usually think of myself as a modern man, fully bought into our digital world, and then I wander into the farmhouse library, and I realize that this space is a place outside of time, and I remember my ongoing love affair with hardback books. As I first wrote and edited this piece, I found myself switching back and forth between hardcover and hardback, mixing as I often do my British and Canadian English.  Rather than going with a uniform approach, I left the nouns and adjectives as I found them on the page.  

I still to this day buy hardback books because they embody something rare in our fast-paced, ephemeral world: permanence. There’s a kind of quiet romance to their weight in my hands—a grounding reassurance that I’m holding more than just paper and ink. Each hardcover feels like a promise, an intimacy that won’t vanish with the swipe of a screen or a fleeting notification. They are timeless, like the lingering warmth of a lover’s voice after they’ve left the room, soft yet unwavering.

On my shelves, their spines stand like steadfast sentinels, guarding fragments of my life. Each book holds a memory: a novel devoured on a long train ride, a cookbook sprawled across the counter on a rainy Sunday, a travel guide flipped through during quiet nights when the world outside was covered with snow. Their dust jackets, often worn and peeling at the edges, only make them dearer. Like laughter lines etched on a familiar face, they tell stories of years well-lived and hands well-loved.

Hardback books are resilient in ways I admire. Their pages hold firm, their spines don’t surrender, and their beauty only deepens with age. When I open one, the faint creak of the binding feels like the exhale of a secret shared just between us. The embossed covers beg to be touched, as though inviting me to connect not just with the words within, but with the countless others who’ve held the same book. In their permanence, I find companionship—kindred spirits who, like me, sought solace or joy in those very same pages.

My collection is a reflection of who I am. Beloved fiction titles transport me to worlds where I’ve found companionship in characters who now feel like lifelong friends. Illustrated cookbooks add bursts of color and life, inspiring meals that have punctuated moments of celebration, comfort, and discovery. And then there are my permaculture and agroforestry guides, rooted in a deep love for the earth and a longing to live in harmony with its rhythms. Together, they form an eclectic tapestry of passions that, when viewed as a whole, feel like an unspoken autobiography.

Perhaps, above all, I buy hardbacks for the future they promise. I picture someone I care for—perhaps a partner, or one of their children—one day standing before my shelves. They’ll trace the spines, pull a book down, and find my notations in the margins or a bookmark still tucked between the pages. Those scribbles and marks, though small, will be echoes of me—a life lived in dialogue with stories, recipes, and ideas.

Hardback books, like love, aren’t always practical, but they are endlessly worth it. They ask for time, for care, for patience. And in return, they give so much more—a place to lose myself, to learn, to dream, and, more often than not, a place to be found.