Buecher

I like books. I like reading them, of course, but I also have an unhealthy fascination with touching them, looking at them, purchasing them and collecting them. All of these activities are only tangentally related to the fundamental act of reading, but I justify my continued enjoyment of them by insisting (to myself; no one else has cared to notice) that they are all connected, in a sense, to reading.

This might carry weight (with me, or in a court of law) if I read a significant percentage of the books I acquire. Right now it is quite pathetic. I am sure the proverbial children in India would do a much better job of availing themselves of their avaliable resources were they to obtain the few hundred books I have in my possession. I do honestly love to read, but somehow I find myself engaging more often in other activities, like compulsively refreshing Facebook or checking and re-chechking the college football-related sites linked to in my sidebar.

What inspired this confession is the fact that there are 454 books on my Amazon wish list. And the propect of whittling them down to 8 – 1o for a birthday wish list just depressed me. There are two I know I want, but beyond that . . . 452? Paralysis by choice. Egads.

I think I will now go read my Sociology textbook and listen to . . . “The Everglow” by Mae. It fits today. It pretty much fits life.