I do love books, the tangible things almost as much as their captured stories. Not rare books or coffee table books or the great books or high literature or low drama…just all kinds of these paper-made, tree-consuming objects. The highest calling I can imagine is being a scholar or an intellectual—since it is too late to achieve either on my part I’ll settle for being surrounded by the things that could have put me in one of those exalted professions.

I have achieved something important in life however. As a youngster I had a reoccurring dream that a book I was desperate to read was lying on the pillow beside me. So disappointing to wake up and discover I had to wait for the next library visit. Now I earn enough money to buy all of the books I want. Congratulations to me.

The problem is that the point of having a book is still the story—fact or fiction, serious or light-hearted, old or new. And I love stories. So I always intend to read the books I buy. Herein lies the conundrum. To have the income to buy the books I must work.  Work interferes seriously with my reading time. Therefore too many books from recent visits to other countries’ bookstores, airport bookstores, Bookworks, Barnes and Nobel and to B&N and Amazon on-line surround me as I sit on the couch and watch entire past seasons of Downton Abbey/NCIS. What to do?