I don’t know why I started
Keeping track of all the books
I’ve read in the last ten years.
But I see I’ve read thirteen hundred of them.
Thirteen hundred in ten years,
One hundred thirty per year,
Nearly eleven per month,
Two and a half per week.
When did I find time to read so much?
Am I any better off for having read those books?
Or has my reading been bad for me, an addiction,
Like cocaine, alcohol, or watching porn?
I conclude that my reading is definitely an addiction. I have the symptoms.
New friends who also read. Looking at other people’s bookshelves with longing.
Spending a lot of time thinking about books and trying to acquire them.
I’ve even stolen books to satisfy my cravings (Sorry, friendly hostel owners).
I am limited by space in my small apartment.
The number of books I can keep must fit on a single bookcase,
Sharing space with two plush toy cats
And a statue of a small bird with big feet.
I counted my books just now – two hundred twenty-seven of them.
These are the books that have survived
My painful and frequent sessions of library pruning.
I thank each book for the memories before taking them all to the used bookstore.
I have twenty-four unread books on the shelf,
An emergency supply for times of illness,
Or when I need a long break from people
Because I’ve used up all my words trying to be extroverted.
I’ve read most of my books more than once.
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn five times each.
Robinson Crusoe four times. Walden six.
And Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax at least ten times.
I’ve loved my time with Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
I’ve read the short book at least twenty times.
I thought I might memorize it for fun. I’ve tried,
But I always forget the lines after the second page.
I have a Canadian Oxford Dictionary I use often.
It’s more old-fashioned than looking up words on the Internet.
Today I looked up the word ‘evince’ because it showed up in the daily crossword.
How could I have missed reading that word all these years?
I’ve been to many of those leadership seminars, in which we managers
Have to pick three non-essential items
That we can take to a tropical island.
Nobody ever says their library. Except me.
I was a high-school and university athlete.
My body was just the right type to excel at sports.
It was fun, but my favourite part of my day
Was going to the library or my room alone to read.
I landed my first part-time job the day I turned fourteen.
I was a clerk in a bookshop.
My job was to keep the shelves filled and tidy, to work the cash register.
I would have done it for free.
Today, I live across the street from the public library.
I found my apartment when I was parked at the library
Wondering what I was going to do next in life,
And I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign over at the building with the pretty hedges.
In the mornings, I like to drink coffee and solve the crossword.
I look out my window and watch
The people coming and going at the library.
I don’t know those people, but I love them. They are my clan.
I read my first novel when I was eight.
The nice librarian saw a bored-looking boy doodling at a table,
Handed him a novel and said,
I think you’re going to like this.
The book was The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford.
I read it and cried. The nice librarian gave me Old Yeller next,
By Fred Gipson. I read it and cried again. Afterward,
I spent most of grade school staring out the window and dreaming of adventures.
In grade eight English class, we read a book. Darn, I forget the title,
But I remember telling a friend how meaningful the book was to me.
He looked at me strangely and called me a sissy.
I was a jock, so I learned to hide my love of reading books from some people.
I don’t know why I didn’t get good grades in English Literature.
Perhaps I didn’t understand enough about what I was reading.
I excelled in mathematics, physics, and geography,
But I would read books instead of doing my homework.
On weekends, I went for dates with my high-school sweetheart.
I sure liked her, no doubt about that.
Yet often when she was talking,
I would be thinking about my unfinished novel sitting on my bedside table.
I’m pushing sixty now and have been reading about how to age well.
There’s much talk about the importance of relationships in successful aging,
But nothing about the importance of quietly reading alone.
Books are surely not as important as human relationships. I know that. But sometimes…
I don’t own a television, so I often read.
When I’m tired of reading, I sometimes
Just sit with a glass of wine or a cup of tea, looking at my bookshelf
Reading the titles and reminiscing about my time reading those books.
What do the titles on my bookshelf say about me? I wonder.
There are fiction and non-fiction books. Classics and contemporary.
Reference guides. Poetry. Graphic novels. Trail books.
Why do I not own a cookbook? I wonder for the thousandth time.
My books are likely not so interesting to most people.
Some may think the books mean I’m lonely.
Or elitist. Unfriendly. Quarrelsome. Pompous.
Some might think they understand why I live alone.
However, I would like to think my books say something else about me. A man of reason.
A deep thinker who also likes a good story. A nature enthusiast. A traveler.
A philosopher. Someone who struggles with spirituality. A curious man.
A thoughtful man. A lover of solitude and the written word. A contented man.