Bibliopassion

I love books.

The physical artifacts. The feel of them, the weight of them in my hand (not so much in heavy book boxes whilst moving, but individually, yes), their appearance, how they line up on my bookshelves and atop my nightstand, verily, in every room of my house.

Love them.

Am addicted to them. Can’t resist them. Work around them every day. Gravitate towards bookstores and libraries and bookshelves wherever I go. Find them comforting and sexy and revealing. One of my favorite things to do when first meeting someone or going to their office or home is to check out the books on their shelves. Reveals a lot, I think, about the person and how they think and read and what they are interested in.

So, you can imagine my dismay when I enter a house completely bereft of books!

Unfathomable to me.

I love books.

What is inside them. The type and the font and the layout, yes. But more precisely, the words. The words upon the page. The thoughts and ideas and images from the writer that have made their way onto paper or a computer screen and then ultimately upon the printed page.

The narrative. The story. The images. The evocation.

The writer Robert Coover wrote: “The narrative impulse is always with us; we couldn’t imagine ourselves through a day without it.”

Isn’t it this which makes us humans? The ability to tell stories.

And record them permanently for others to read. Later. At another time. In another place. On another planet. Decades, centuries, even millennia later.

I feel joy, euphoria, contentment, security surrounded by my books, my friends, my compatriots. Each one, like a separate treasured memory, holds a special place in my mind and in my heart. Each one elicits certain thoughts and memories and ideas and moods and feelings. Each one marks a different point in my life. I feel that if someone were to come into my bedroom and look over the books in my bookcases that line all the walls of my room, he or she would see into my very soul. And, so, I do not often let people into my bedroom. Other than my children, who already know me and pay no nevermind to the books on my shelves.

Reading.

I love to read.

In the bathtub, on a plane, in the doctor’s office, in bed, in the Adirondack chair on my front porch, at my desk, on a blanket at the beach, in line at the DMV. In my car as I drive to and from work or on long trips (audio books, of course!). Anywhere, everywhere, but not at the table whilst eating with others. That is a time for conversation and community, although if we talk about books, that is fine with me, too!

My hunger for reading knows no bounds. I read fiction and non-fiction, poetry and prose. Drama and grammar guides. Magazines. Mysteries and biographies. Histories and politics. Science and philosophy. Religion and art. Realistic fiction, creative non-fiction, fantasy, memoir, mythology. Classics and popular fiction. Bestsellers and obscure tomes.

What am I looking for?

The word upon the page that moves me. I am looking for the story, the description, the narrative, the dialogue, the turn of phrase that reaches deep inside me and jiggles things around and makes me think and feel and say: “Goddamned, I am glad that I am alive and that I can read!”