Yes, I know it hasn’t been that long since I put up not one, but two, Book Dump posts. Which points to a rather serious problem. Anyway, here they are–and I deleted all the rationalizing I’d put after each item, haha–more bloody books:
- Light Boxes, by Shane Jones.
- Looking for Alaska, by John Green.
- Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, by William Styron.
- Theft: A Love Story, by Peter Carey. [Read!]
- Becoming Jane Eyre, by Sheila Kohler. [Read!]
- The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, by Maggie O’Farrell.
- The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
- Asleep in the Sun, by Adolfo Bioy Casares.
- Skylark, by Dezsö Kosztolanyí.
- The Glass Castle, by Jeanette Walls.
- The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, by Anne Brontë.
- The Cry of the Sloth, by Sam Savage.
- The Infinities, by John Banville.
- The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein.
- This is Where I Leave You, by Jonathan Tropper.
- People of the Book, by Geraldine Brooks.
This is getting ridiculous, really. I smuggle books into the apartment, in big backpacks and oversized totes. In the apartment, I go to extreme lengths hiding them, for god’s sake. I have two full plastic containers that hold these books, not counting the others in the Sasha Shelf that The Boyfriend has graciously reserved for me in his as-overflowing bookshelves. Augh. It’s not just the money [though God knows a lot of it goes into this addiction], it’s the psychology behind the buying, what I think about when I buy these books. Beyond that unexplainable Oh, I will love this book, beyond the default love for all things written, it’s that I buy books to fill a gaping chasm inside my soul. Aherm. It’s not buying power, it’s not simply owning something. I love these books. And I need to have them because there is a near-painful urgency in this loving and needing.
I do try to read everything that’s come in. I’ve made progress with the last Book Dump books. It’s the principle, I suppose–I’ve made a spreadsheet and a schedule, hee, just to assuage the guilt at the mere possibility of not being able to read all of these things. But I know I’m well stocked for a couple of months. And there are still so many books–I will have to count one day–that I haven’t turned to. Some books I’ve owned for five years and I’ve selectively forgotten them dusty on the shelves. And, man, the rereading–how many books do I want to reread? [Please just nod at the whole Bright Side of Shiz spiel.]
So. Let’s give this a year. [Oh, my heart.] And since I just can’t stop myself from buying books–I do not have the strength for that–I’ll limit myself to one a month. One. One. ONE. And technically, I bought some of these in June, but those don’t count. [I am off to a good start.] Our third year anniversary’s coming up [wee] and I’d already planned on giving The [licensed but non-practicing architect, full-time artist, too good a cook] Boyfriend The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton. [I’m giving this to someone else, but if I read it, will it count? Eek.] And, come the end of September, Lydia Davis’ new translation of Madame Bovary will be released, and I’m buying that. Will have to buy that on October, since September’s my birthday. And, yes, credit can be cumulative. I can not buy in July & August so I can give myself three birthday books come September. [I am really not off to a good start here.] I’ve also decided to really think about the book. As what normal people do, I guess. Look it up in Amazon, read more book reviews and all that–so I’ll get a book because, if I take a moment to think about my life without it, I shall be seized by a ginormous bereftness and utter despair. Hell yeah.
The suffering shall be entertaining, at least.
A new category, then: Book Ban Agonies. Holler.
And, come on, guys, you are so allowed to give me books. Buwahahaha.