Becca Elise Marjolet

Confessions of a Bibliophile

I feel I must be honest with each of you. Within the walls of this room lingers an addict. I admit that I am a creature of weakness. A name exists for scum like me, it is bibliophile. That’s right. I love books so much I read them at the dinner table, in a car, and even in the restroom. It is a known fact to those who are well acquainted with me that I cannot face a meal or the prospect of entering a restaurant without a book in hand (or at least in my purse, as the case may be). I love the smell of the books. I love the bindings, the different typesets, the gilt edges, the engravings, and the little treasures I sometimes find in the used books I buy. If I ever lose my home, I’d be more than happy to live in a library.

This addiction started innocently enough (as all addictions seem to do) with my collection of Nancy Drew mysteries. Then someone gave me a set of all the works of Edgar Allan Poe. I discovered Chaucer, Hemingway, Thurber, Maugham, Rinehart, Shakespeare, and my beloved Muriel Spark. I was hooked, and I wanted more!

I am not a literary snob. I’ll read most anything. I’ll read the classics, sci-fi, mysteries, thrillers, romance, nostalgia, chick-lit, whatever you want to call it. Vacations have become synonymous with reading marathons. I have a formal library that is overstocked, and each room in the house (kitchen and bathrooms included) has several 3-feet-high stacks of books (my husband calls it our burglar alarm system). Don’t mess with my stacks-I know what’s in each and every stack! Some people may have rubber bands around their doorknobs that their children will have to remove upon their parents’ demise; my children will have books! In many years (at least 40 – 50 more, I hope), some Half-Price Books is going to get to get the mother lode of books.

I’ve tried to break this addiction, but I can’t handle the withdrawal symptoms. Reading the back of deodorant sticks in the bathroom or every word on the menu in a restaurant just to stop the shakes. I even read flyers people stick on cars when I am truly desperate. I now know things I never wanted to know because of this reading problem.

Those unfortunate people who have lived with me have had to make adjustments. My parents pretended that they were actually having conversations with me during dinner. We’ve always tried to have an extra bathroom in the house. My former in-laws hid all the books at their house so I was forced to make eye contact with them. I thought I was fated to live in an unkind world where no one understood me (except for my parents who started me down this path in the first place). Then I met him! My soul mate, my fellow bibliophile. Together we have sustained both independent and major chain booksellers worldwide. I finally found a dinner partner who is content to read his literature while I read mine and feel that we had a very good meal all around. Saturday nights mean buying new books and magazines then hitting the neighborhood IHOP. Heaven, pure Nirvana. It doesn’t get better than this!