Every morning on my way to work I pass a used bookstore. It’s cute, tucked into an old building on a small side street off Main, and it always has two racks of books outside on the sidewalk. And every morning, I have to resist the urge to pull over and peruse their selection.
This morning I noticed a young man unloading cardboard boxes from the back of his truck, and carting them into the store. He had four, and they were full-to-the-brim with books. The books didn’t appear to be particularly old or worn out—so I guess he was just selling them. After all, the sign above the door does say “Used Books—Bought and Sold.”
It made me sort of sad, to be honest. (When I told the coworker over lunch I was going to blog about a used book store, she rolled her eyes at me, lol.) See, I can’t imagine parting with a single book I own. (I even kept some textbooks I liked in college.) I love books—particularly my books—and while I love and respect the concept of a library, I hardly ever step foot in one. Partly because I’d end up in there for hours, and partly because I get cranky when I read a book and then am forced to give it back. Give it back? But it’s brilliant… the prose, the thoughts, the feelings it evoked when I read the last page… I don’t want to give it back.
In my apartment I have books in bookshelves, on dressers, on side tables and in cabinets—back at my parent’s home, I have three giant bins of books, dating back to when I first started reading, waiting for me in the garage. Every Christmas when I go home I crack open those bins and page through the memories of my youth, then I take a few and stick them in my suitcase, promising the rest that I’ll be back soon.
I plan to have amassed a giant personal library when I die—and that I can bequeath to someone who loves them as much as I do.
Either that or I’m having a giant pyramid built to house them all and I want my body (encased in a white gold casket with emerald accents) placed smack dab in the middle.
