Today when I walked over to the library to write they were having a book sale. Thousands of books, a buck or less a piece, waiting for new homes.
Hey, I have bookshelves now. Why not?
I ended up with only five books, two of which I've already read but don't own (Krakauer's Into Thin Air, which I've read many, many times and finally admitted I needed to just buy, and Anita Shreve's The Pilot's Wife), and three that I've been wanting to read but didn't want to spend the money on them (The Kite Runner, A Million Little Pieces, and The Victors, by Stephen Ambrose).
While perusing one of the tables, a man across from me kept plucking out books and adding them to a dangerously high stack he was carrying, all the while making very satisfied sounds. He finally looked up at me, a wide smile, and said, "Isn't this great? If I could breathe books I would!"
Amen to that!
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