Tuesday, September 29, 2009


It is obvious, I'm sure, that my philosopher and I love books.
In a lot of ways, he probably loves them more than me
but at a certain point the minute differences are irrelevant.

Our home will always be brimming with bookshelves and piles of books
and we'll continue building a library for as long as we can.

I come by it honestly for sure.
Growing up I thought everyone had a living room
decorated with floor to ceiling bookshelves
stacked two or three rows thick.

As I got older I came to realize
that, in fact, not everyone loves to be surrounded by books.
Weird. To each her own, I suppose but I can never escape the feeling
that a spine-less home is cold and empty.

It is just so strange to see bookshelves with huge gaps of open space
a paperweight here, maybe a coffee table book there, a couple of picture frames...

However, despite my love of books - particularly beautiful hardcovers -
I have been trying to reconcile my desire to emulate this (with a twist)
with the guilt and sadness I feel in taking a razor to a masterpiece.

I suppose it is about artistic endeavors...
you have to break an egg to make an omelet...
and so on and so forth...

We'll see if I really have it in me to follow through with my plans
for these lovely, dusty hardcovers I found at the Still Waters book sale this year.

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