I collect books. Not first editions or fancy ones, no. I collect books the way some people take in cats, rescuing them from bargain bins and library sales. I don't need any more, and the ones I already have are crowding me out. But I can't resist. I'm a sucker for a catchy title, is what it is. I like to put them up on the shelf and read the spines and wonder what's inside. They're like Christmas presents before they're unwrapped: promising and pleasant, mysterious and satisfying in their possibilities.
Often, though, the title is the best part. When curiosity finally gets the better of me I take one down to read, always with a sense of unease, even dread. What if there's only an ugly sweater inside? What if ALL those books on all those shelves are just endless disappointments? So many. I couldn't survive them all. Lately, I've taken to rereading old favorites rather than take the chance. This is a new thing for me. I'm not sure what it means, but I suspect it isn't good.
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