Writers write. Writers read. Writers have a strange and beautiful love affair with books.
The look of a book, its cover art, the dignity of its hardback, the typeface, the width of the margins. The feel of a book, the cool smoothness of a paperback, the rough texture of a cloth-bound book, the wear-split plastic protector of a library edition paperback.
The sound of a new book’s spine as it is opened for the first time. The gentle fan of pages lovingly riffled.
The intoxicating, dusty smell of an ancient text.
The fun of trying to pick your way around hundreds of volumes that have overflowed their bookshelf banks. The thrill of packing a gazillion books for a cross-country move. . .
Would we conquer this addiction if we could? Don’t bet on it.
Book Lovers Anonymous?