You never really think about your relationship with books being anything too unusual. I mean, it’s painfully clear if you’re a reader that not everyone is a reader, and that you’re a bit different if you’re a book lover. That’s made obvious early and often by the popular people over the years.
What I’m talking about is that deeper relationship with books that is a lot closer to obsession.
In my case, I began reading before I was speaking all that much, and was the kind of baby who would escape my crib to go find the books (or toys; I woke up at night a lot and would get myself out of bed to where the action was). One time, I threw all the books I could find into my crib and cried because, while I had mastered getting out of the crib, getting back in wasn’t possible. I needed those books.
My mother doesn’t per-se remember teaching me to read. I just figured it out.
Side note: reading early has nothing to do with reading ability or intelligence, and late readers catch up. The teacher in me needs to tell you that.
But I digress.
The point I am making is that my relationship with books was different from my relationship with people. At night, books and the odd toy could comfort me, but people were unnecessary.