I used to make fun of my roommate, Jenn, for the number of books she kept on her queen-sized bed. Last time she cleaned it off, she came back with a count upwards of 50 hiding in the sheets.
Now that I’ve switched from a single to a queen and shoved everything into a much smaller room, and having an out-of-town boyfriend who only visits once a month or so, I have discovered something quite peculiar.
The other night, I was startled to roll over and discover that I’d left a pile of books in bed with me.
Jenn has a really great coffee mug that says, “Book lovers never go to bed alone.”
Ain’t that the truth.
We’re at over 1700 books right now, and the rest of Jenn’s SO’s books will arrive this weekend, which will likely but us close to 2000, so we can relate to the plight of the poor buried bibliophile:
For the bibliophile, what to do with the books is life’s central decorating issue, an ongoing discourse, a debate, and often an outright décor war, between aesthetics, the practicalities of storage and the consuming mindlessness of passion.
I can’t wait to have a proper library. In the meantime, there are books in every room in our house. I’m glad we don’t live in earthquake country.
