When I leave the library with a bag full of books, something strange happens.
Something quite beyond my control.
I bring home books. Books that strike my fancy; books I hear that all intelligent people should read; books recommended by my favorite librarian (or anyone else). When I put down that reusable bag, they exhale.
And then, when they inhale again, they spread out.
They take over designated library book areas. They cover the futon. They litter the floor. They obscure the dressers. They fill drawers around the house.
They become a part of the landscape.
One day, I might decide I’m in the mood to read that particular one. I might locate it, pick it up, begin to read it. I might even want—and remember—to keep reading the same book.
But while I’m making my way back to that book, it might be finding a new home.
Maybe before it was on the shelf and now it’s under the futon. Maybe before it was by the bed and now it’s outside the bathroom or on the chair on the side of the kitchen table that goes in the absence of guests.
And when it’s in its new home, I no longer see it as a book: It becomes a new piece of furniture. A decoration.
Eventually, I forget about it.
The only guarantee is that I’ll find it (because I must) when I get a notice from the library that someone else has put a hold on it. Or when my six months of repeated book renewal expires.
Do I read the books everyone says you should read to be an informed citizen? To better manage your thoughts or your sleep or your life? To understand the human condition? To learn something new?
Do I read the books I look forward to discussing with my favorite librarian, or with my friend who always takes my own recommendations so well?
For a time, they become a part of my home. I welcome them, these books that might otherwise fester, untouched, on a library shelf (only rarely does someone actually request them before the six month loan limit). I share my air with them. I rearrange my seating patterns around them. I think of them in passing as I gently move them from place to place, and I allow them to sink in where they feel comfortable.
And is that not as valuable as reading?
This Glass Has Water 