It took trying to fill three still mostly empty bookshelves to make me realize how anemic my personal library really is.
Sure, I have a nice, leatherbound copy of The Hobbit — somewhere — and you’d be hard pressed to find a better collection of roleplaying source books on my floor — alas, for the guy upstairs is even nerdier than I — but most of the rest of my books amount to novels I forgot to return, paperbacks I lent out and haven’t gotten back, yet, and textbooks from classes dating back to middle school. There’s the odd classic — I still haven’t read Wuthering Heights — and some science fiction — I’ve read A Canticle for Leibowitz many, many times — but that’s about it.
For someone who spent half of his free time in a library and the other half in a home wall-to-wall with at least nine full bookshelves — one of them strictly my dad’s sheet music — there are few things more damaging to the spirit than empty bookshelves.
Blame it on nostalgia, but it doesn’t quite seem like home without corner-torn volumes of fiction, reference and history. To alliterate — am I too illiterate? — bare bookshelves are the bibliophile’s bane.
I need to get on this. If only I could afford to.