A hellish paradise

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I’ve had a love affair with books my entire life.

As a girl I dreamt of the enormous library I’d create in my grown-up house, complete with wall-to-wall bookcases, overstuffed leather chairs and window seats.

My home is perfect for me. When I imagine an ideal home, it is my apartment.

When you step into my apartment, the first thing you notice is the books. They’re everywhere… overflowing off book shelves, piled high on the floor, in stacks covering the dining room table, organized in columns rising from the oversized glass coffeetable, laying neatly on the bedside table.

I own hardcover books, and leatherbound books, and paperbacks; non-fiction and fiction written in English and Portuguese and French. And they’re all priceless to me.

And I promise myself I won’t buy more. Not until I finish reading all of them. But I can’t resist. Because a favorite author will release a new novel, or the reference books will be on clearance, or I’ll be in one of four area bookstores where I have a discount card.

I’m like Carrie – but instead of $40,000 worth of shoes, I’m investing $40,000 in BOOKS.

And then I look around and realize I’m toeing a fine line between someone who really really really loves books, and one of those crazies featured on Dateline.

I think it’s time to move into a larger apartment.


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