Books from libraries (two, at last count). Books new from bookstores. Books used from bookstores. Books on loan from family and friends. Books books books. Only three of them currently sport bookmarks. Those are the three I'm not actively reading right now.
I went to a used bookstore in NoHo today, and the place was like CRACK. Their $2 table was near-suicide, really. I have horror stories, rock criticism (edited by Nick Hornby!), The Professor and the Madman, and just for fun, the best erotica stories of 1993. I plan on reading those under a blanket and giggling a lot. Hee.
Bookcases up to the ceiling. The smell of dusty paper. Twelve copies of The Haunting of Hill House. 1 too-expensive hardback of Eggers. Shelves of Mark Twain. Bad celebrity bios. Hershey Kisses by the front counter. Seven books for fifteen dollars.
My name is Liz. And I am a bookslut, indeed. And I shall celebrate this fact with an afghan and candles and tea and my cozy armchair. I shall ward away the winter chill with the words of others and my own. I shall create a fort of thought, totems of sentences and chapters and writers.
And just as soon as my nightstand deflates, just a little more, I'll be back to the bookstore again.