I am obsessed with books and reading.
My current year’s (i.e.
2011) reading list is too long to finish this year, at my present reading
rate. It comprises mostly contemporary
literary fiction, but there are a few modernist and classic titles. The list began when I asked my friends for
recommendations of contemporary literary novels. Then, it grew as I read a novel I liked and
searched for others similar to it. There
are close to one hundred books on the list; which does not include the
non-fiction, philosophy, poetry and short stories I want to read.
This may sound rather
benign and harmless, but nearly every time I get online I am looking for more
books; I often check books out from the library that are not on my list and
attempt to read them concurrently with the listed books.
Books are always on my
mind: at night I think about what I want to read next from my list (or not from
my list); during the day I have a stack of books that I am working on, while I
look longingly and with desperate remorse at my shelves of books (and stacks of
books that won’t fit on the already full shelves).
It’s not that I’m a
book-pack-rat. And, it’s not that my
books are like first editions or collectible; most of them are paperback. I read, have read and plan to re-read most of
the books I own. If I read a book and it
doesn’t rate at least 4 stars and fairly beg to be read again, then I will get
rid of it: either selling it on Amazon,
donating it to the local used bookstore or swapping it on PaperBackSwap.
Still, I have a lot of
books and have a very hard time, with withdrawal-type symptoms, when I think of
giving up buying them—even for a short time.
My palms are sweating now and my heart is pounding, and I’m merely
thinking about it so I can write about it.
I have not sought medical
help for this, but am beginning to think it may be necessary.