Roses that brush off the snow
I have a problem. No, seriously.
For the benefit of those of the less observant variety, I like books. A lot. If I could, I'd spend money on books the way that an addict spends money on crack, so I control myself pretty hard (especially working in a bookstore). I'm pleased with my level of self-control; I allow myself a book once every two weeks. Difficult, but ultimately happier for my simultaneous love of food.
So, where, you ask, lies the problem?
In my mind, buying used books doesn't count, especially when they are cheap used books, meaning that I enter a used bookstore and die of sorrow that I'll never be able to read them all. I try to compensate for this by buying them. As a result of this, not only do I have numerous books that I'll never read-I have five copies of Sense and Sensibility.
Nevertheless, today's purchases were justifiable. A practically new hardcover copy of Antonia Fraser's biography of Marie Antoinette for less than a quarter of the cover price, London: the biography for slightly less (also amazingly cheap), and a tiny, battered The Remains of the Day. All of which have been recommended to me by various people, so when I starve this month... that's where the blame goes.
"Why so few?" I hear you ask. Because I spent most of the time in the shop pouring over books on Henry VIII with sister dearest, most of which I convinced her to buy. I shall be borrowing them.
And, because Dec. 3 is creeping ever nearer... this week's Tori spam. If I ever (god forbid) had to pick a favourite, this might very well be it. It's my favourite of the B-sides, anyway.
For the benefit of those of the less observant variety, I like books. A lot. If I could, I'd spend money on books the way that an addict spends money on crack, so I control myself pretty hard (especially working in a bookstore). I'm pleased with my level of self-control; I allow myself a book once every two weeks. Difficult, but ultimately happier for my simultaneous love of food.
So, where, you ask, lies the problem?
In my mind, buying used books doesn't count, especially when they are cheap used books, meaning that I enter a used bookstore and die of sorrow that I'll never be able to read them all. I try to compensate for this by buying them. As a result of this, not only do I have numerous books that I'll never read-I have five copies of Sense and Sensibility.
Nevertheless, today's purchases were justifiable. A practically new hardcover copy of Antonia Fraser's biography of Marie Antoinette for less than a quarter of the cover price, London: the biography for slightly less (also amazingly cheap), and a tiny, battered The Remains of the Day. All of which have been recommended to me by various people, so when I starve this month... that's where the blame goes.
"Why so few?" I hear you ask. Because I spent most of the time in the shop pouring over books on Henry VIII with sister dearest, most of which I convinced her to buy. I shall be borrowing them.
And, because Dec. 3 is creeping ever nearer... this week's Tori spam. If I ever (god forbid) had to pick a favourite, this might very well be it. It's my favourite of the B-sides, anyway.
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