All those authors there, most of whom of course I've never met.

Hear the words of Norman MacCaig, poet of clarity and truth, who said with gentle affection: “All those authors there, most of whom of course I’ve never met. That’s the poetry side, that’s the prose side, that’s the fishing and miscellaneous behind me. You get an affection for books that you’ve enjoyed.” In these words we see the quiet devotion of a man who lived among words as among companions. For MacCaig reminds us that books are not dead objects, but living presences—voices that speak across time, friendships forged without meeting, intimacies formed in silence.

The meaning of his statement rests in the strange power of literature: that a reader may come to love an author whom he has never met, to feel kinship with the dead, to sense that the page carries not only words but the spirit of the one who wrote them. When MacCaig gestures toward the shelves of poetry, prose, and even his beloved fishing books, he speaks as one surrounded not by paper but by a community of voices. Each book is a memory, a companion, a spark of affection.

The ancients themselves knew this truth. Cicero declared that a room without books is like a body without a soul. Seneca spoke of how reading the greats was like conversing with the wisest of men. The scrolls of Alexandria were not seen merely as texts, but as guardians of civilization, voices waiting to be heard by generations unborn. MacCaig’s affection for his shelves is the modern echo of this ancient reverence: the recognition that books are bridges between souls.

History gives us vivid examples. Think of Thomas Jefferson, who filled Monticello with books, claiming them as the true wealth of his life. His library was so vast and beloved that it later became the foundation of the Library of Congress. Though he never met most of those authors, he carried their voices with him, their wisdom shaping his thought, their words guiding his actions. In the same way, MacCaig’s shelves of poetry and prose were not collections but companions, shaping his art and life.

His words also remind us of the affection born from joy. When we read a book that moves us, we carry it within us as though it were a friend. We may not recall every line, but we remember the feeling, the moment of discovery, the spark of recognition. Over time, those affections gather into something larger—a love not only for the book itself but for the act of reading, the companionship of thought. MacCaig speaks for all who have turned to their shelves and felt gratitude for the voices that have sustained them.

The lesson for us is clear: do not treat books as possessions, but as relationships. Approach them with openness, and they will reward you with companionship. Honor them, revisit them, and let their voices live within you. As MacCaig suggests, even if you never meet their authors, you may still walk with them as friends, learn from them as teachers, and love them as guides. For what matters is not the meeting of flesh, but the meeting of minds.

Practical wisdom flows from this. Surround yourself with books that speak to you—not merely those you are told to read, but those that awaken joy, curiosity, or wonder. Return to them often, as one returns to an old friend. Keep your shelves not as trophies, but as companions, each with its place in your story. And when you finish a book, pause to give thanks for the unseen author who gave you a piece of their soul.

Thus, Norman MacCaig’s words endure as a hymn to the reader’s life: books are not objects, but companions; authors are not strangers, but friends across time. Let us remember this truth and pass it on—that to love books is to live among voices that never die, and to carry within us a chorus of wisdom, affection, and joy.