I’ve been accumulating books since arriving here in London, either bought online or in various bookshops all over the city.
The pace I’ve been buying my books has far outstripped the speed with which I read them though. On top of studying for various exams and general busy-ness at work, I’ve fallen far behind on my reading list.
I keep imagining the authors of my books all sitting hunched beside each other on the shelf, throwing me accusatory glances because I haven’t gotten around to reading them yet.
Growing up, I read and re-read the books that we had at home. My parents kept our little “library” well-stocked not only with classics and Nancy Drews but also authors like Roald Dahl, Agatha Christie, Enid Blyton, Jane Austen, and Judy Blume.
So yes–I was the kid who always had a book en route to the toilets and had yet another emergency book in my bag at all times “just in case.” I still do, actually.
My point being: I’m not used to seeing unread books at my shelf. I generally wolf them down as soon as I get them and, if I like them that much, do a repeat.
If there’s one thing I hate seeing, it’s an unread book.
I guess part of the reason why I haven’t kept up the pace is because I’ve been buying so many. It’s delicious to have the freedom to finally have your own money to spend on whatever you wanted. Combine that with my current home–London, a city of bookworms and rich with so much good reads–ah, the temptation is just too great.
So while it bothers me that I still have some way to go with the books I now have, in all likelihood I’ll still be adding more. I wouldn’t mind not being able to keep up with all the world’s good authors. I know I’ll barely scratch the surface in my lifetime. What would be more disturbing would be the day when there’s nothing left that’s worth reading.
So it’s okay Shelf, you just wait. I’ll slip another volume in my bag and take you on, one book at a time.