Bibliophile

I have a problem and it's pretty hardcore. I can't stop buying books. The words, "I'm going to stop by the bookstore" send my husband into a tailspin of fiscal dismay. It's a dangerous place for a woman with a debit card and no self control, you see.

I love books(except sci-fi and fantasy). I want to possess them, devour them, fondle them and exhibit them. I remember as a young teen, visiting the house a friend whose family was much more affluent than mine. They had an honest to goodness library; a room lined with shelves which were bursting with a mind-boggling selection of gorgeous gilt-edged and leather bound classics, multitudes of dog eared paperbacks, and countless hardcover reference books full of vibrant pictures and beautiful illustrations. I fell in love with that room, and I thought that having a library was just about the most elegant and refined thing in the whole world. It became my fondest wish, one that has yet to be realized.

Sometimes I buy books that I'm not really interested in reading, just because they are beautifully illustrated or have interesting cover art. This is especially true of children's books. I also buy children's books that have wonderful verse or enchanting rhymes. I collect vintage children's books when I can, and my most prized are Never Tease a Weasel and Miss Suzi. I remember my Mother reading these books to the three of us, and I can still hear the lilt in her voice. I still remember the dramatic pauses that made us catch our breath in anticipation, and the theatrics that she used to bring the story to life. My mother didn't just read books, she performed them. Perhaps that is why I love them so much today.

I have been known to stay up all night devouring a particularly gripping tale as if on some kind of literary bender. When I don't have reading material, I go into a kind of panic, which I guess is really a symptom of withdrawal when you come right down to it. I start making a mental list of my all time favorites, which line the shelves in our family room, trying to determine which of those I've read long enough ago to get some satisfaction out of re-reading. And I always keep a stash of non-fiction that I really do want to read, but can't bring myself to sacrifice what little reading time I have for them in place of the fiction that I crave. The combination of the two can usually see me through a literary dry spell quite nicely. But still the panic comes, and I must turn to my little mental list to assuage the full on hysteria that threatens.

I have reading "moods" and so, I often have three or four books in progress at one time. Sometimes I want light reading; something engaging enough to turn my mind from all the endless domestic worries, but light enough to give my poor addled brain a respite. Sometimes, I want to be challenged. I want to think. I want to provoke use my gray matter in a way that isn't often precipitated by the complexities of toilet sanitization or pit stain removal. And sometimes, I just want to know stuff. Who, what, when, where, why, how. I want to look into the past, I want to understand the present and I want to revel in the possibilities for the future. My husband, a non-reader (I mean, he can read, of course, but he does not choose to do so for pleasure), finds this an endless source of puzzlement. He doesn't understand how I can switch gears from one to the next without confusing characters and storylines. I can honestly say this has never been a problem for me.

Nothing can raise my spirits more than a new book. The smell and feel of the crisp new pages and the promise of being transported by the story within can make almost any problem seem surmountable, almost any worry seem minor. It's a balm for any wound, physical or spiritual. I can think of nothing more pleasant than curling up in bed with a brand new book and hours of peace and quiet ahead of me. Throw in a little thunder and lightening, and I'm blissed out beyond belief. A crackling fire is a nice touch, but is not strictly necessary for optimal reading ambience. This is a good thing, since the only fireplace in our home is located in the living room, and trying to read there is like trying to meditate in Times Square.

As you might have guessed, I have high expectations when delving into a new book. And I suppose this is why I am so grievously disappointed when it fails to live up to those expectations. I take it quite personally, truth be told. A bad book is the worst kind of disappointment; a betrayal of the trust I have placed in the author by paying money for the privilege of perusing their intellectual property. It makes me inordinantly cranky.

At this moment, I have by my side three new books (featured in my sidebar) just waiting to be experienced. I find this curiously comforting, enormously uplifting, and superbly satisfying. In short, I am a happy woman.

My name is Blog Antagonist, and I am a Bibliophile. Perhaps there is a 12-step program for that, but you won't find me there anytime soon. And if anyone stages an intervention, there will be bloodshed.

Now please pardon me, while I go consume a fifth of Irving Stone with a Tom Perotta chaser. And don't expect anything coherent from me until well into the afternoon. I'm going to have one hell of a read over tomorrow morning.