An Extra Bedroom

Yesterday, I read a lovely article from the NYTimes discussing personal libraries of the rich and famous. What I share with these people, across a vast ocean of wealth, is a love for books bordering on romantic sensuality. It comes right down to the smell-- ranging from a vintage musk to a playful earthen scent. Like a lover, I fall asleep dreaming of them while they lie on the pillow beside me.

Like any addict, I surround myself in my obsession. An "open" bibliophile, you'll find piles strewn here and there, pairs tucked into totes, with the most prized ones in the most frightful conditions. A recently purchased bookcase attempts to create some order out of the chaotic clusters of reason and rationality strewn about my apartment. A majority of the books, I have read at least once and possibly a dozen times. In conversation, I find myself scanning the catalog of my collection to recommend a relevant source. Oftentimes, I'll scamper away and return seconds later with a sacrificial offering to our friendship.

However, the ocean between myself and the rich and famous starts here. Beyond our lust, I have yet to obtain fortune or fame through the wisdom of these piles. As the most obvious consequence, I lack an elegant library to store my books. In fact, my closest thought is the realization that a library equals an extra bedroom in Manhattan real estate, which remain an unfathomable notion to me as I struggle to pay rent.

However, I remain comforted by the bibliophilic insight (idealism?) that possibility the rich and famous, or at least one of them, once was a struggling student with piles of beloved books filing their minuscule Manhattan apartment.

To all my friends that I have loaned my sacred treasures: Please return them. Thank you.