|Artist reading Hemingway's A MOVEABLE FEAST|
Some people (I’ve heard them say these words) have a concept they call “too many books.” In my birth family, and in the household the Artist and I share, that concept has never been recognized, even here in our rented winter cabin that is basically one large single room. Yes, we sometimes run out of shelf space. And we don’t always want to keep every book we read forever. In the latter case, we pass books along to friends and family (I just shipped off a box this morning), donate (or re-donate) to thrift shops, or take to bookstores for trade credit, if we can get to such a place easily. (In the past year of COVID, getting to those Tucson bookstores has not been easy.) But there are many books we want to hold onto. “I need another bookcase,” the Artist says to me. Oh, how quickly they fill up!
The dog and I share a library and R&R corner, where my Western, Spanish, and French books are in one case, miscellaneous books in another, nature field guides now moved to the desk.
The Artist also has two bookcases, but, as you see, books are also piling up on the tops.
|His, his, his, his|
Then there is the little table between our respective reading chairs: each with a different book, we often interrupt the other’s reading to share aloud something from our own.
And my shelf of cookbooks, of course. Can’t forget those.
And the books on my bedside table, some for reading aloud and some for reading myself to sleep. Will I ever get around to those other Jack Kerouac novels? There are a few waiting for me here:
We always have between two and half a dozen books in the car with us, also, and I’m not showing you the big, heavy box of books in the closet or the stacks of books on top of that box (enough to fill another carton). I make no excuses. We are not wealthy people, but we have what feels to us like a very rich life, and books are a big part of our satisfaction.