Between the covers
Being a book slut, I naturally approve of anyone who has more books than blood cells. This Wall Street Journal article by Luc Sante admirably captures how easy it is to become overwhelmed by the books in your life. My favorite bit: "Books entered my house under cover of night, from the four winds, smuggled in by woodland creatures, and then they never left. Books collected on every surface; I believe that somehow they managed to breed."

For me books are are drug. They are my heroin. I physically cannot go into a bookstore and come out again empty-handed. Like a retriever on the scent I sniff the air and head eagerly towards the new releases section. I wander aimlessly through History, deciding that my knowledge of the Medici popes is sadly thin and I must rectify that weakness. I become unduly fascinated by biographies of people I've never heard of. "Wow," I'll say as I consume the summary on the back cover. "This woman invented the envelope and had an affair with the King of Bohemia. I must have this!" And I slip it under my arm while I look for more treasures, even though in a more rational moment I will wonder what the hell I was thinking buying a biography of some unknown women whose only claim to fame is as the mistress of a minor royal.

You see, that's my other problem. I'll buy a book, full of lust and optimism, and then get home and put it in my towering to-be-read pile. Then, a month later, when I'm looking for something to read, I'll pick it up and have no interest whatsoever in reading it. That's why I agree with Mr. Sante. I swear these books breed other books. Or they sneak it at night like tiny literary elves. Because I often pick up a book that I know I purchased and have absolutely no desire to read it. Why is that?

Perhaps books are like my shoes. I know the stereotype of women having 150 pairs of shoes. Surely they must occasionally fall madly in love with a pair of purple suede pumps that they determine they must have. Then, a few weeks later, they go into their closet and break forth with a "what was I thinking?"

So what am I thinking? Going back to the heroin analogy, I suppose I don't think. I crave. I need. It's a sad addiction for which I suppose I should seek a cure. What's the bookstore equivalent of methadone? A library, perhaps? In my case I think the only cure is to avoid bookstores. But that's hard to do. Here's my sad, sordid confession. Sometimes, late at night. When Husband is asleep. I .... now try not to judge me too harshly ... I visit Amazon. Or Barnes and Noble. Being able to shop for books at 4 am should be illegal.