In Defense of My Ridiculous Number of Books
Let me begin with a confession—though anyone who has stepped foot in my home already suspects this: I love books. Not in a casual, “I enjoy reading when I have the time” sort of way, but with the devotion of someone who wakes at an hour most people would consider indecent just to be alone with them. Books are my early-morning conspirators, my steady guides in the long apprenticeship of becoming more fully human. They keep vigil with me before dawn, stacked like loyal elders along my nightstand, perched on window sills, leaning against old cameras and typewriters, holding the room together the way only well-loved objects can.
And yes—I take books everywhere I go. Wherever I travel, at least one book is tucked under my arm, usually two, sometimes three. If you ever see me arriving somewhere early, please don’t mistake this for admirable punctuality. I simply wanted a few extra minutes with a story.
Recently, while drifting through Barnes & Noble, I spotted a book titled something like Reading Addiction. I left it where it was—mostly because I wasn’t quite ready to see myself so plainly described. And, naturally, the thought of going back for it is already tugging at my sleeve.
I wish I were the sort of person whose spiritual depth did not require quite so many volumes. But here I am, an insecure, slightly ridiculous soul who needs a towering pile of books to remind me that wisdom, compassion, humor, and depth still exist in this f&%k-up world.
For me, a book is not merely a “reading device.” A book is an entire sensory world. It’s the faint vanilla warmth of aging paper and the satisfying weight that settles perfectly in the palm. It’s the whisper-soft turn of a page—the sound of a private breeze. It’s the beauty of a carefully chosen typeface, a sturdy binding, the small thrill of a well-made cover that somehow promises, “Come in. There’s something here for you.” A Kindle can be a lifesaver in moments of desperation, but a real book—creased, scuffed, loved into its truest shape—has a soul. Some of mine are falling apart in ways that make me proud, like a pair of favorite shoes that have carried me faithfully for years.
Writers—wise ones and wild ones, saints and sinners, artists and artist-wannabes, mystics and mischief-makers—sit with me on these shelves. They have accompanied me through tragedy and steadied me in moments of peace. Their pages have held my early morning hours, those hidden pockets of quiet before the sun remembers us.
And on days when the news leaves me despairing—overwhelmed by noise, cruelty, or the general unraveling of things—my embarrassingly large library becomes a kind of monk’s cell—spare, sheltering, and steady. Books whisper their soft reminder: Not all is broken—there is still what is luminous, brave, and wise. Press on.
And so I keep stacking them on desks, tucking them under lamps, piling them in corners. I pretend it’s a design choice—an “artfully curated literary clutter”—but the truth is simpler: these friends insist on being close. They insist on being seen. They insist on being held.
As for that book on reading addiction… yes, I’m probably still going to buy it. But that, I promise, is a confession for another day.
