Saturday, October 27, 2012
One reason I'm having such trouble sorting down my books: they are all loveable, in one way or another.
Some for sentimental reasons, some for their subject matter, some for all that and the clothes they wear.
A few groupings mark significant milestones in my reading life (here are Johnson and Boswell, and now Byron), how can I jettison what has meant so much? Or, more to the point, why would I?
Many represent my other self, the more adventurous one, that shadow who takes chances I do not take.
We travel, my books and I. We climb the Himalayas and traverse the Sahara together We learn Persian.
Who needs Halloween candy, when we have eye candy like this, made just for booklovers. (Though I must confess, tonight I opened the bag containing all those little boxes of Junior Mints.)