My dad was a lumberjack who cut down the trees to feed the pulp mills that made the paper for books and other stuff
I do love books, the tangible things almost as much as the more ethereal stories they enclose. 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 written often about books but now, with 365 posts ahead of me, maybe I will delve deeper into this habit and see what is interesting or useful about it.
Sometimes people ask me to suggest a book, usually a murder mystery I admit. Instead of responding with an in-depth review and recommendation I have decided, in future posts, to make sweeping generalizations about all kinds of book (with the exception of the most scholarly—about which I cannot even pretend to be qualified to comment).
I have achieved something important in life. 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. 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.
Apparently work isn’t the only thing interfering with my reading reading reading.
What to do?