My Kindle overfloweth.
The upper cabinets of my computer desk are neatly adorned with books – lovingly sorted by collection, color and genre – but my lifelong compulsion to continue in the acquisition of these cherished avenues of escape have required that I stack books horizontally atop the vertical alignments. Floor space in our sunroom, relaxing reading haven where I sit next to bright, open views of birch, Chanticleer pear and a hodgepodge of bird feeders, serves as a display vehicle for books in baskets beneath a funky woven bench I bought at auction some forty years ago. They serve as solitary sentinels guarding the small, seldom-used television in the corner. They hover alongside the swivel rocker where I sit on cozy chilly mornings, a hot cup of chai close at hand.
Bookshelves reside in nearly every room of our house.
I’m susceptible to enthusiastic book reviews and recommendations. My Amazon cart almost always contains a new selection (or two or three) to serve as buffer the next time something really ‘necessary’ requires purchase, a means to scoot our total amount adequately higher in order to bestow free shipping.
I hesitate ever so slightly, shrug as if to say ‘what the heck’ and click the Buy Now button.
Have I gone mad? Certainly, I’ll never read all these books, these journals, these poetry collections. Will I? Is that even possible?
My baby sister chides me for my book purchases, preferring to check out her books from a library. I get it. Books are expensive. You finish reading one and then what? With so many books in my queue, it’s doubtful a re-read hovers as even a remote possibility.
But books are lovely. They give me so much pleasure. They are – yes, it sounds both strange and cliche – like old friends. Even the electronic versions provide no small degree of sublime satisfaction.
This cat is unlikely to change. I’ll continue to read, to acquire, to covet more and more and more. What can I say? I do love me some books!