There is a pile of unread books in my room . They are arranged in no particular reading priority, as they contain a variety of thoughts that is too much for a single mind to impose an epistemological hierarchy (of sorts) upon.
The books that make it up come from all over: some are gifts , some are lucky scrounges from all manner of nooks, crannies and book sales, some are impulsive buys from hanging around bookstores too often. There are different reasons for getting them as well: some are remnants of material I would have wanted to read so that my thesis could have been more comprehensive, some come from my favorite authors, some are personal reading recommendations from loved ones, and some are just works I have wanted to read for a long time now.
Slowly but surely, it is growing . Little by little, new books, new collections of thoughts, new bricks to add atop the old ones, until we have a pillar of knowledge that stands higher than what we think we can safely claim to know.
Problem is, I only have so much time to devote to them, as real life, as I say time and again, gets in the way of the multitude of lives I could be living in this multitude of realities. Escapism? Yes, actually, as these other worlds are usually so much more frolic-friendly compared to ours, where a wrong turn will sometimes cost you your life, if not your next paycheck’s worth.
I hope I get around to shrinking this pile down soon .
: Note that this does not yet include the books I have lent out, the books I left in school to lend to my students (mostly stuff by Gaiman), comic books and graphic novels, and the books in our small but wonderfully-stocked school library.
: I know I have a copy of ‘The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest’ here somewhere.
: At the rate I buy books compared to the rate with which I can read them through and through, I’ll end up with an empty wallet and even less shelf space (where books and toys compete with each other for space).
: Just one long, sanity-recovering break, pretty please.