Mushrooms

In orientation sessions at the library, I always forewarn new employees about the potential hazards of working in such an institution; namely, the colonies of library books that will sprout from their floors, dressers, tables, desks, night tables, and bags. Just when they think they have their reading under control, another irresistible book will pass under their noses, and they will take it home, lest they forget they want it.

I say ‘they’. I mean ‘me’, or at least, ‘me too’.

Piles, columns, stacks—call them what you want—I have them growing in my house at an alarming rate. There are the library ones, of course, then the ‘to read next’ sets (I do mean ‘sets’ in the plural; somehow there are just so many books demanding urgent attention). Those poor volumes that I actually own, get relegated to the back of the list, which seems to get longer and longer. It goes without saying that none of this stops me from going out and buying more, nor does it prevent me from taking them out from the library. As long as there’s surface area, there’s room. When that runs out, we’ll go vertical.

I’d say I wish I could stop myself, but that would be a flagrant lie. More books=pleasurable life.