If there is one thing that I’m most passionate about, above all my other assorted likes and interests, it would be books. I read them. I collect them. I dream of writing them. Books have brought me joy, solace, and laughter; they have even brought me sorrow and heartache. But no matter what, with every one that I finish, a piece of it becomes forever ingrained within me. And without the intention of making myself immortal, I find that a part of me is left behind within the pages I just read.
So the other day, when a coworker mentioned in conversation that she had the habit of reading a book then giving it away for another person to read, I had a visceral reaction. For you see, I am quick with a recommendation but slow to lend you my copy. Selfish, yes, I know. I have resisted turning to ebooks much because of emotional attachment I have to their physical counterparts, to that unmistakable scent and that inimitable feeling of a well-worn paperback in my hands. I regard my books as others may regard jewelry or family heirlooms- they are precious cargo.
So if I do happen to breakdown and (reluctantly) let you borrow a book, please know that I am actually giving you a small part of myself as well. Take care of it, and in turn, me.