A Literary Confession

January 12, 2009

I own more books than one person should.

My books are my trinkets, they hold memories for me, like photographs do for others. As someone who retouches photographs, and often turns them into the surreal, I have developed an inherent mistrust of their visual depictions. Instead, I have literary-induced nostalgia. On my frequent travels, I make sure to scout a local bookstore and buy a book (or 10). Borrow a book from me and you will likely find a plane ticket stuck between its pages. Instantly you know if I first read it on the beaches of Aruba or in the gardens of Oxford.

Everyone from friends and family to my exterminator has commented on my collection, some better than others at hiding their incredulousness. Not one to be deterred by the “freak” label, my curiosity (and my collection) has grown over the years. Being surrounded by potential knowledge inspires me and though I am a consummate purger in all other aspects of my life, I will never part with my books. Their stories are so much more than just the words on the page.

Oh who am I kidding? I’m just looking for a guy with one hell of a librarian fantasy.


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