It might surprise you to know that I have a lot of books. One might say I really have a lot of books. Although, I have less than I did and will occasionally cull out (less worthy books) or loan out or give away one or two favorites of mine, just so that I can introduce old friends to new friends, as it were.
Downstairs in the barrister bookshelves are the nice books, the ones that look good together and the first editions (mostly signed).
Up in the guest room is one full bookcase of short story collections (so that guests have something to read, but don't need to make a commitment). Also in the guest room are two small bookshelves filled with paperbacks, sorted alphabetically by author (A through Heyer).
Heyer continues in the bookshelves that surround me as I type this (the desk I use displaced the two bookshelves that are now in the guest room), and then goes through to Margaret Yorke. Over near the bed are more hard covers and some assorted goodies that really should be put back in their proper places.
Except for the barrister bookshelves and the short story shelves, all the bookcases are over stuffed. Books are lined up, spines out and then there are piles on top of those books, in front of those books and on top of the shelves themselves.
Most of the books are mysteries, quite a few are science-fiction/fantasy/alternate Earth (generally w/ vampires), and a growing contingent are in the Heyer dimension going towards Chick Lit.
I love books, not just the words in them - though that's huge - but the smell of them. The feel of the covers, that paper-y sensation when I turn the pages, the quiet shwush of the paper rubbing against itself and my fingertips. The wonderful anticipation of starting a new book, a new chapter, a new page. The mingled satisfaction and sadness of finishing a really good one - knowing I can re-read it.
Through My Glasses, Dorkily
1 year ago