Too Many Books

When I walked into the Public Library for the first time at the age of six, I was stunned by the tonnage of books on the shelves. Everywhere I looked, books. Every nook and cranny filled with books.

Books on everything. Football. Politics. History. Mysteries. Science Fiction. Basket-weaving. Fly fishing. Books about things I was passionately interested in. Books about things I cared nothing about but which suddenly seemed interesting because there was a book about it.

I was dizzy with books. I’m surprised I didn’t fall on the floor in a stupor.

And the amazing thing: They would let me take books home with me without charging me a penny!

All the books I could ever want, free! The only limit was that they wouldn’t let me take more than ten books home at a time. But then, how could I read more than 10 books in the three weeks they loaned them to me?

And I formed an ambition right then and there. Someday, I would have an extensive library of books.

Fast forward to last week, when I received eight more books in the mail, books I had ordered from Thriftbooks and Amazon, despite my intention to lay off the buying of books for six months.

Because my childhood ambition has realized itself with a vengeance. In every room of my house–yes, even the bathroom–you can find something to read. The back wall of the living room is filled with over 1000 books. The bedroom has another 40 books. I have a back room which is empty except for shelves of books. The room I sit and write this blog in has about 200 books.

Books, books, books.

Some would say I have too many books. Those rude and ignorant people just don’t understand.

These books are my friends. They smile kindly on me, each hoping secretly that I will choose them and open them up so they may reveal their secrets to me.

And yes, I still walk into my house filled with books and swoon. Everything else in life will let you down. Only chocolate and books will always make you happy.