I accrue books at a rate equal to the exports of small countries. Setting aside the time to spend with a book is to many a luxury, I suppose. A moment to focus on words actually printed on white pages bound together without any connection to the internet. I still find myself battling to enjoy this time, this disconnection.
I realised while making a sarcastic remark today, that I am a book snob. I made the comment that I only buy First Edition Hardcover copies, and I was sort of kidding, except I wasn’t at all. I really do. I have a book subscription, a subscription not just to magazines, not just to a quarterly, but to books. And I love it.
Why do I do all this? Why do I revel in this addiction? Simple. I am the type of person who one day does not want to be able so simply utilise bookcases, or even an entire wall of bookshelf, I want to require an entire room full of books. Shelves on every wall, a library, with a reading chair to sit down and read Catcher In The Rye for the 5782th time.
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