I grew up around books - my grandmother's house, where I lived

John Irving once reflected: “I grew up around books—my grandmother’s house, where I lived as a small child, was full of books. My father was a history teacher, and he loved the Russian novels. There were always books around.” In this memory lies more than sentiment; it reveals the sacred soil from which the soul of a writer is nourished. To grow up surrounded by books is to be raised not only by family, but by voices that span centuries, by minds that whisper across time, shaping the imagination before one even knows it.

To dwell in a house full of books is to live in a temple. Every spine upon the shelf is a doorway; every page is a path to other worlds. For a child, this presence is more powerful than gold or jewels, for it teaches that wisdom is never far away, that stories are companions in solitude, and that questions always have echoes waiting in the written word. Irving’s grandmother’s house was no ordinary dwelling—it was a sanctuary of thought, where the walls themselves breathed of learning and wonder.

The father, too, played his part as a guardian of history and lover of stories. As a history teacher, he carried the weight of civilizations, teaching not just dates and battles but the patterns of human striving, the rise and fall of nations. And in his love for the Russian novels, he showed another side of wisdom: the exploration of the soul. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev—these were not just storytellers, but prophets of the heart, dissecting despair, hope, morality, and love. To grow up in the presence of such passions is to inherit a dual vision: the grandeur of history and the intimacy of human struggle.

The ancients knew the power of early surroundings. Alexander the Great was taught by Aristotle, and though he conquered the world with armies, it was the lessons of philosophy and story that gave him vision. Likewise, Abraham Lincoln, born in poverty, devoured every book he could find by candlelight, rising from obscurity to become one of the greatest voices of liberty. Irving’s recollection echoes this truth: books in childhood are not ornaments, but seeds of destiny.

There is also a lesson of inheritance here. The grandmother’s house, filled with volumes, and the father’s love of novels show how wisdom passes quietly from generation to generation. It is not always by formal command or strict instruction, but by the silent presence of books, the example of a parent’s passion, the atmosphere of reverence for knowledge. A child absorbs this like air, and only later realizes how deeply it has shaped him.

From Irving’s words we may learn: surround yourself and your children with books. Let your home be a library, however small. Do not wait for schools or institutions to provide wisdom; let it live in your dwelling, in your daily life. Read not only for knowledge, but for joy, for story, for the widening of the soul. For when a child sees a parent cherish a book, they are taught without words that learning is a treasure and that imagination is a power.

Practical action is simple yet profound: read daily, even if only a little. Keep books within reach, not hidden. Share stories aloud with family and friends. Explore not only the newest words but also the ancient and the foreign, for as Irving’s father loved the Russian novels, so too we must seek voices outside our own time and place. In doing this, we build within ourselves and those around us a library of the spirit, a fortress of thought against ignorance and despair.

Thus John Irving’s recollection is more than a personal anecdote; it is a parable of formation. To grow up “always around books” is to walk daily among teachers and prophets, to be shaped in silence by the wisdom of ages. Let us therefore honor the written word, and fill our lives with it, so that, like Irving, we too may find our destiny guided by the ever-living voices that dwell within the pages of books.