Paper Weight

Paper Weight

For the third time in my life, I have found myself thinking, “I have too many books.” It’s a thought that only ever creeps up when I have to pack them all up and move them. Books and paper, when they fill a box, weight a ton! After four or five of those, even the tough guys from the karate school start complaining about it.
 
The problem, of course, is that when I am not moving, I am of the opinion that there is no such thing as too many books. I don’t have the space for it right now, but one day I want a room I can devote entirely to a personal library.
 

I want shelves for the Shakespeare pocket books that have gathered through personal interest or class requirement. I want an entire case, small and low to the ground, to hold the result of my near-epic and ultimately failed attempt to get the entire Dragonlance series. I want a shelf for my true crime collection, preferably not near my very small romance novel selection, because the juxtaposition of that would be odd. I want a child’s shelf for the favourites I haven’t been able to part with (The Chronicles of Narnia, The Rebel Witch, The House With the Clock in Its Walls) and for the new ones gathered for nieces and nephews I expect in the future.
 
I want a whole world bound and framed by different covers. One as mixed up and random as my interests appear to be, and as endless as my enthusiasm for words on a page.

But once I have it, I never, ever, want to have to move it.

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