The Problem with Books

The problem with books is simply that one cannot get enough of them. Speaking from my own experience, I have purchased more than I can read, at a flow more rapid than the flow of my eyes when an intense chapter is taking place.

I purchase all books I feel like I need no matter what the expense. I create an immediate goal wherein any book I feel that I must acquire, will be acquired. If I only have fifteen dollars and a book costs twenty dollars, I will delve into my secret money stash deep in my handbag and pull out the fifty dollars that my grandma had given me a Christmas ago, and I will purchase two other books just so that I have five dollars left to buy a pretty rad bookmark to place in the newly bought books.

I treat my new books as though they cost fifteen times their price and worth. I handle them delicately, rearranging them in the bag from the shop so that I find no creases on them when I return home with them, and from time to time I secretly open my bag to check that they are still there unharmed, and I take the occasional sniff and close the bag up and continue on my journey home. I take extra care in that I do not throw the bag around when I walk – it floats gently by my side, not bumping into mine or strangers’ thighs or belongings. When I reach the car, I lay down the bag of books beside me more carefully than three pizza boxes next to a hungry person.

Upon arrival, I sit down and stare at the bag that the books are in. I read the bookstore’s name around three times, and then I open the bag. Even though I know the exact amount of money I spent on which books, I reach in first for the receipt. I look at the bookstore’s name, the time and date that I purchased the books, the name of the person who saved me, then I picture their face, and then I read the book name and prices. I look at the little ‘thank-you’ message on the bottom, and in a fashionable manner, scrunch up or tear up the receipt, and place it in the bin next to me. I think proceed to take out the first book. I smell it, feel the undamaged spine, and flick through the pages, the smell of the book flicking back at me in rapid speeds. I stroke the texture of the cover – some books have words which pop out, and then I read the blurb just to remind me about my choice to buy this book. I take a look at the text inside so that my eyes know what to anticipate.

Next, I go through the exact same process with the remaining books, even though I know that all books smell almost the same. I must not miss out on the off-chance that one book may smell or feel differently than the other, so I embark on the same journey. After finishing off familiarizing with the books, I set them in front of me on my desk, and walk off to the previous book that I was reading. And herein lies my problem with books.

My problem with books is not only my love for them – it is my lust for them. My love for one book while I lust for another, and another, and another. I cannot bring myself to remain closely attached to just one book at a time because my mind enjoys having more than one interest at a time. So when my mind is interested in Edgar Allan Poe and his poetic collection, my mind may wake up the next day and yearn for me to read Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club. Naturally, I would so-called ‘temporarily’ set aside Poe and begin Fight Club. A couple of days later my mind will crave Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, so I leave both Fight Club and Poe’s poems for Hemingway’s wondrous love story. From then on I would know of the Great Gatsby’s film release which is upcoming, and I would have left Hemingway to quickly read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s the Great Gatsby. After which, I will view the film, and return slowly to the other books that I have begun to read.

And it is a vicious cycle. From then on, the cycle does not end. Anna Karenina still awaits me to finish reading it. So does The Help, and Filthy English, and Assholes: A Theory. All these books are hollering at me. They almost creep themselves up to me just to have me finish them off, and I do not, because there is another book that I have just started. At this moment, I am still reading the fictitious book about Zelda Fitzgerald. The other books are literally collecting dust, not to mention the books that I have purchased or my never-ending book wish-list.

And I fear not being able to finish all of the books that I own. For, daily, my wish-list gets bigger, my acquired list gets even bigger, and the unwritten list of books that await me to finish them is probably never going to end also. But I cannot help it. The problem with books is that I cannot get enough. When I am reading, I am thinking of reading other books. When I get to read other books, I am thinking of buying more. And when I am buying more, I am noting what other books to buy.

The underlying problem is that I do not mind this at all.