a book of my own

I've been buying so many books the last two months that when I stepped (AGAIN!) into a bookshop earlier on, I felt like a gambling addict who'd just stepped into the casino. Amazon.com is a fount of great evil from where cheap(er) books, rare books, books you've always wanted to buy but for some reasons hadn't, and books that're simply begging to be bought, can all be bought at the click of a mouse. And so I clicked, and so impoverished (monetarily) I am. 

Then there are the second-hand bookshops where every book that you think you fancy or want to read is simply there to be bought for a few bucks: cheap paperbacks, cheap hardcovers, books you never knew existed. Even a rare Virginia Woolf (essays on London) and a gem of Jeanette Winterson (an essay on why she loves books) - cloth-bound, thick paper, stitched together with thread and imprinted in gold . . . And so I bought, and I bought, and so more impoverished (monetarily) I am.  

And then there are the bookshops proper, lined with the newest novels and hiding the pleasant surprise of older ones that can only make such an appearance on a bookshelf in a bookshop than, say, Amazon.com can't. And how can one resist a new novel by Toni Morrison or John Berger, once again (and perhaps inevitably, but for how long more?) in hard cover, thick paper, stitched together with thread and imprinted if not in gold then silver or copper or some such . . . and so I bought, and bought and bought, and so very impoverished (monetarily) I am. 

I remember when I was in Primary school, my most-feared Chinese teacher used to tell us how he'd visit the bookshops every week, and how he would invariably purchase a book each time, for there's always a book to be bought. And as kids who didn't really appreciate books the way books are meant to be appreciated, how we sniggered at him then. But now look who's laughing at he (that is to say, me...) who visits bookshops not every week but almost every other day, and who walks out with not one but two, three, four books.

And how it is a measure of my monetary poverty that I weigh every purchase that is not a book - coffee and cakes, clothes, groceries, etc. - with how many books I might otherwise be able to buy. E.g. a mental dialogue with myself by the shopwindow/boutique/cafe would go something like: "by forgoing 3 cafe lattes and 2 cakes, I can own that hardcover Rushdie!", or, "that pair of Nike shoes cost FIVE BOOKS!!!" Sigh. If only I can have my cake and read it.

I hope I live long enough to finish reading all my books, although there are so many books to be read, to be had, and there is only one life and so much I can read. Or perhaps rather, I shall endeavour to live for as long as I shall finish reading all my books? And then perhaps I can drop dead happily, leaving behind all my books, testament to he (that is to say, me...) who once upon a time had read, for he thought life was simply too short not to have read good Lit., not to have owned good books, and not to have known the simple pleasure of the book - in words in its poetry, in stories in its imagination, in pages in his hands - cloth-bound, thick paper, stitched together with thread and imprinted in gold . . . 

(The latest casualty of my wallet as a result of that inescapable pilgrimage to The Bookshop is caused by F. Scott Fitzgerald's assorted writings "The Crack-Up", edited by Edmund Wilson (simply must buy!!!). Edmund Wilson is of course that august literary critic whose complete essays and reviews published by the Library of America I have purchased off Amazon.com and whose arrival I'm still awaiting. See how books conspire!)