A friend of mine once said every woman should have some sort of vice. Hers, since precarious health ruled out indulgence in most mind-altering substances, was sexy lingerie. She had drawers of the stuff, in every color, shape, and degree of lace. It was an appropriate weakness, given her petite, curvy stature, and the fact that she got engaged to her high school boyfriend during our first year in college. Sexy undies are much more entertaining when you have someone else around to appreciate them. As for me, being something of a late bloomer — socially, if not physically — I had long before staked out my own personal drug of choice: books.
Here’s the thing about me and books: my addiction is not just to stories or reading or the marvels of the written word. Sure, I enjoy losing myself in a good yarn as much as the next book-a-holic, but my obsession goes beyond what lies between the covers — book covers, that is. I’m in love with the books themselves. It’s an aesthetic addiction that surmounts my fondness for clean sheets, melted butter on rye toast, or dark chocolate. Something about the weight and feel of a book makes me feel complete. Hardcover or soft, slim and refined or massive and engaging, books make my heart beat just a little faster. I love how they look lining the shelves of my home or a bookstore, all those different colored spines with alluring titles. I love peering at the covers to see if I can guess what the story is about, and then reading the back to see how close I was. I have been known to buy multiple copies of the same favorite titles, not because my old copy was lost or worn out, but because the publishers have re-released an author’s work and the new edition is prettier.
I suppose I was destined to work in some aspect of publishing. No one could love books as much as I do, both reading and collecting them, and not spend their days surrounded by the objects of their affection. As I mention periodically (mostly to my long-suffering friends, who are tired of hearing me whine), I have considerably less free-reading time than I did before I became an agent, since much of my reading time is devoted to manuscripts. But that has not kept me from buying new books, and at approximately the same rate I always have. The piles keep on stacking up around my apartment; I’m going to need to move soon, because I’m running out of room. I once read about a woman in New York City who, when she went to move (no doubt because she also needed more shelf space), the moving company charged under the classification of a library, due to the size of her book collection. One day, that will be me.
But what is it, exactly, that I love so much? I’ve asked myself a million times. It’s easy to explain my love of reading: escapism, ability to travel to new and fantastic places without leaving my couch, crawling inside the heads of fascinating people, or people I would be to frightened to ever meet in person, gorgeous sentences, and intriguing ideas. It’s a rush. But the book thing, that’s different. My mother spent years trying to train me to use the public library, and I did as a child, when my allowance added up too slowly to support my wish to buy everything I read. But as I got older, the library was abandoned unless I needed reference material for a school paper. It wasn’t enough to read the books I loved, I needed to own them. I wanted to be able to sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and pull them down off the shelves, old friends just waiting for me to spend some time with them. Something about the shape, texture, and even the smell of a new book just made me happy, even before I had the chance to read it and get to know its more intimate secrets. And it’s still the same. It has nothing to do with monetary value — I don’t scramble for first editions or search for out-of-print volumes — just the value they hold for me. Perhaps it has to do with longevity. After all, friends and lovers come and go, and even a great pair of shoes will eventually wear out, but books… Books will never go away, and even if one might let me down, there will always be another on the shelf to redeem it. Books are my eternal love affair.
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A hunger, a greed, a need - and a sense of being surrounded by treasure.
I am addicted to books. Other people do drugs, I do books. I can smell a book sale, would rather have books than dessert, and carry books with me at all times.
I was lucky enough to marry a man who loves books as much as I do. He believes that as long as there are books in the house that he hasn’t read he won’t die. At this rate, he’s going to live to be 300. When we moved back to OK from DC, we sold furniture and kept the books. I think we’re at 10,0000+. And still we buy more. New, used, hard or soft. I’ve read the covers off certain books and I replace them. I have bought multiple copies of some so I can give them away to friends.
Books helped me grow up and get through some really bad patches. They helped keep me sane. They entertained, comforted, inspired. Books are what led me to writing. Now I tell my own stories, but I still buy more books. Hi, my name is Bev and I’m a bookaholic.
I must own, too. I’m now considering changing some of the furniture around in my house to accommodate more book shelving space. I converted the third bedroom to my office and put in a futon that would double as a couch if I wanted to sit and review papers and then be an extra sleep space for overnight guests if I had more than two at a time.
Forget that plan. I need to sell the futon so that I can run a row of low bookshelves beneath that window. I rarely have more than two guests at once, so now I think a comfortable sleeper sofa in the living room will suffice.
In the meantime, I had a corner rotating table/bookcase in the corner of the living room but had to move it to make way for the new saltwater aquarium. I know it sticks out a little in its new location, but I’ll have to accept the interior design flaw. I need that bookcase for hardcovers!
I’m another book junkie (I even studied book arts in grad school; hand-set type, book binding and all that). I like the physical object. The feel. The smell. I think this is why eBooks don’t work for me, they’re just files on a computer. Nothing agaist the writing inside the file, but I miss the physical book. *sigh* I’m always so happy when an eBook I’ve been thinking about buying comes out in paper.
I have to have books on my desk. Piles and piles of books around me makes me happy.
Once again I thought I was the only out there. Another kindred spirit found in our love of books.:razz:
The eBook doesn’t ring my bell, either. I need the tactile connection to the words on the page.
I need more shelves. Every shelf has paperbacks 3 rows deep, the front row hanging an inch and a half over the edge, and as many books crammed into the space between those books and the next shelf up as I can squeeze in. Yet I amaze friends and family by being able to locate any given book in about 30 seconds. (I have a system!)
I want a room devoted to being a library, floor-to-ceiling shelves, one of those ladders so I can reach the top… Ah, ‘twould be paradise.
Kerry -
Please share your secret! What’s your system? I’m feeling over-run and I’ve recently been guilty of buying duplicates. HELP!
And I too dream of that floor to ceiling (at least a 12 foot ceiling) home library with a ladder.
I know this makes me a complete geek, but I dream of living in the library at George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch. LOL!
Ah, that was brilliant. Yes, the heft and scent of books, the look of them, the constancy. Other things change–everything else–but not that.
I too love books. The biggest booksale of the year in our city starts tomorrow. I will be down there 2 hours early to line-up. I don’t know how people live without books. If I don’t have a pile next to the bed, something is wrong.
I’m the same way.
I just bought a new bookshelf last year that was only half filled when I moved the books into it, now its filled in and working on double/triple rows.