The Process of Buying a Book.

I do not search for a book. I run after it. I run to bookstores and bookshelves, I hunger for a title if I know I want it. If I don't know what I want, I run anyway. I run to shelves and push aside books and pull out one - my cupboard is full of these last, and they're all brilliant.

But a book isn't enough. It must be opened. Flipped through. Pages rubbed between thumb and forefinger. The spine must be bent, rubbed, read. Most importantly, the book must be smelt. Smelt and savoured, like a fine perfume, smelling the dust and ink and paper. There isn't anything like it.

After this indulgence, of course, there are matters like checking the price and publisher and reviews on Amazon. Practical matters all. Nothing beats the look on the cashier's face when they see me heft my stack of titles on the counter - I can read off of it, 'here's another one'. I should think they've seen the sort. I wonder what they think of us.

I remember wanting to be a librarian because I'd get to read all day. It might be enough to buy all I want and read it after, because then I'd be able to keep it for myself.