An English Major's Confession

I alluded to this in an earlier post, but I haven't been reading much lately. It's a very strange thing to admit because reading has always been such a constant in my life. I've really begun to realize lately, though, that it's not just a matter of it being something I've always enjoyed doing. In a strange way, it really is a vital part of how I perceive myself and how the people who know me perceive me. Sarah loves to read. This is a fundamental in getting to know me.

But lately, I've started to wonder, how can someone who reads as little as I do these days count themselves as a book lover? Is reading the only thing that makes you one? I hope not, because that would mean that for the past year or so I've been a great big faker.

But you know, I don't just love books because of what they say. I love how they look-- be it old ones or new ones. I love how they smell (most of them, at any rate). I love the quiet atmosphere of book stores and all of the possibility of ideas that you know is just sitting there on the shelf. I love the weight of a leather bound book in my hand. I love the way you can guess things about people by the books on their coffee table or bookshelf (including whether or not the books were put out to "impress"). I love that a person's interest in books gives you an instant insight into their personality. I love what people accidentally reveal about themselves through the books they read at the airport. I love giving a book I really love to someone else and then getting nervous as if I've handed them my child until I know whether or not they will love it like I do. I love imagining where really old books used to live.

I love books. Now I just need to find one to read.