To say I was embarrassed by some of the books Jenny remarked on would be overstating the case; but I do recall defending myself by pointing out that I did not consider every book on the shelves to be a great friend. The collection is not just mine, but my husband's, and was begun more than thirty years ago. Some books were gifts, and those are always difficult to part with. Some are relics from our college days. And that set of Tom Swift books? It's a valuable old collection that belonged to my husband's younger brother, now deceased.
The idea for this post was triggered by an article I came across this morning in The Chronicle of Higher Education. Here's what jumped out at me:
My books remind me of where I've been, intellectually, physically — and emotionally. They are like a photograph album, only with more dimensions.
Exactly. And some of the "photographs" on those shelves don't flatter me, but I think I'm okay with that. Want to test me? Leave a comment and tell me to go look in Bookcase 1 or Bookcase 2. Choose a shelf (from 1 to 7), and then tell me whether to begin counting from the left or the right side. I will tell you about the first five books on that shelf--unless you order me to skip a certain number before I begin counting.
Who knows? Maybe you will make me squirm a little.
Just in case anyone's wondering, all of my romance novels are kept here in my office. The books in the living room are mostly hardcovers, and roughly two-thirds of them are fiction.
Technorati Tags: books, reading