Books, glorious books

Please sir, may I have one more…

Books have always been special to me. I vividly recall favorite books from my childhood, most of which have been lost in the many transcontinental moves we made, some of which I am able to easily replace, many of which I cannot. I recall the colors, the stories, the illustrations the words. I know who gave me which of my books or if I purchased it myself. Often, I am not able to recall the titles or authors. This deeply embarrasses me, but I would hope that the author would be able to recognize how much I love the book and not worry too much about their own recognition.

They have kept me sane in an insane world. They gave me glorious information and beautiful dreams.

I do so love books. I am fiercely protective of my books. I have books I would never lend out, some I would lend to only people I trust (which reminds me, Anne… I still need Damned back) and some that I hope are part of lending chains. I have asked for some of them back when I felt the borrower did not respect the book in a manner I felt fitting, thinking to myself that if they really want to read the book they can go out and purchase a book themselves which gives them the right to treat it any way they choose. I recognize they are not living, breathing things… but they are supremely special to me. Especially those books that hold any form of memory or association.

I usually have about 10 books that I am reading at any given time. Some I read extremely slowly; possibly to digest the content and ponder it carefully. Some I read quickly, they are usually light, often children’s and young adult stories. Some I just can’t get into and keep giving them a try. Rarely do I pass on a book entirely, as I tend to think that the time will come in which I am able to read the story… that some stories require me to be in a certain mood, state, something in which I can experience it.

I am sure that most people who love me have had to bear the burden of my love of books. Moving my boxes and boxes of them across towns, cities and countries. I can’t apologize for this, they are as much a part of me as my pets and family China would be. I would cover ever wall with a book shelf if I could. I had a professor in college who had a child’s reading alcove/loft that had been made, it appeared, entirely out of bookshelves… the bookshelves extended into the kitchen, through the hallway, into the living room and even in the bathroom. I recall spending the entire get together walking slowly past each and every bookshelf looking at titles and being incredibly envious. There were all sorts of books, categorized by subject, often in relations to where int eh house the particular bookshelf happened to be in… it was a dream to see books hold such a place in a home. I dream of having more bookshelves in my home… something like these images… but everywhere…

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