I bought two new books today –
William Makepeace Thackeray’s Vanity Fair (what a mouthful)
and my very own copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J K Rowling
I squeal. With joy, of course.
And as I was covering my two brand-spanking-new books with contact – the clear type – it hit me: I am extremely obsessive compulsive with my books. Firstly, there’s the fact that I obsessive-compusively collect books. If I want a book, I have to have it on my shelf. In this habit, I am only slightly OCD. I can wait, maybe up to a year, even two years. Actually, even if I never buy it, I don’t really mind.
What I’m really OCD about is the condition of my books. I love paperbacks; can’t stand hardcover books. I also hate creases on the spines, wrinkled pages, and bent/torn covers. I read my books with extreme care. No matter how much I’m getting into it or loving it, I refuse to lay the book completely open because I’ll crease the spine. Then the thought entered my head that perhaps the reason why I sometimes steer away from some books on my shelf is because they are intimidatingly perfect.
Eventually, over time, I know they’ll get stained, and fade, and turn yellow from sunlight and age, and get creased and torn and bent. Sometimes I just want to throw them around and fold the pages in the corners instead of using bookmarks. But I know I would regret it immediately afterwards.