I thought I was over my (albeit constructive) addiction to books - not just to the abstract process of reading them, but to physically possessing them, smelling the pages, caressing the fonts with my eyes, feeling the texture of the paper, hearing the subtly unique sound of each as I turn the pages, and allowing myself to be taken into the world of the story by these sensory cues. I thought, after having read many books on my computer, that I no longer cherished paper. But I was wrong.
Note: Images are taken off the internet, and are not of my specific copies.
My books are precious, proudly displayed in exact order of reading on the exact shelves of the exact cases in which they were originally placed, with only a small number written on the back page to denote its order should an accident occur or for purposes of moving. In addition to this ordering and marking, I have close photographs of every book on every shelf, in order to cherish the memory of those books should I lose them to disaster. So that I could recover them even in the event of disaster, I have a full listing of all of my books (publisher, cover artist, and other information included) on my computer, saved in an email account, and saved on a flash drive.
In my childhood, I numbered my first thirty or so real books (novels, not children's books) on their tops, across the pages, in thick black marker where it was obvious - something I now regret, but can do nothing about. My very first full-length novel, The Hobbit, has my first name written in pencil across the top of the book - something I would never try to erase. The edges of the pages in that copy of The Hobbit are now yellow, but they look golden and august rather than tired. It was a Ballantine 50th anniversary edition paperback, with cover art to die for - primarily what attracted me to it when I bought it at age 7.
Many of my books are classics, many are mediocrities, a few are tripe that just barely cut the mustard to merit display. Some are in perfect shape, some are cracked, yellowed, musty, and smell like a bygone era. Some have beautiful, hypnotic cover art (like Kim Stanley Robinson's "Blue Mars"); some have cover art that badly dates them (like my used copy of Isaac Asimov's "Pebble in The Sky"); some have generic cover art that does just enough to hint at the contents, but is otherwise unremarkable; some have totally nonsensical cover art (like my used copy of Poul Anderson's classic "Tau Zero"); and some have no art on the outside. As most of my collection is science fiction, cover art matters more than it might otherwise.
Tau Zero's cover looks like someone squashed a bug on it, doesn't it? Makes absolutely no sense, but the book - an exquisitely beautiful classic - had been out of print at the time, and I had to comb through used book stores to find a copy. I'd gone through several before I had found that, and I wasn't about to pass it up just because the cover was ridiculous.
Most of my books are mass-market paperbacks; some are trade paperbacks; some are small hardcovers with paper fused on to them (I forget the term for this), like my pilfered copy of Heinlein's "Tunnel in The Sky," and the Larry Niven / Steven Barnes collaboration sequel "The Barsoom Project"; and some are full-sized hardcovers with typical paper dust jackets. In my childhood, it annoyed me that paper dust jackets (which contain the cover art) came off, so all but one of the full hardcovers I had in my youth are scotch-taped on to the books - something I never do now, but which I will not risk tearing the jackets to undo.
Some of my books were lovingly purchased brand new with full intention, and planned long in advance, with great anticipation before getting to read it once it came up in my reading queue. Some were cavalierly added to my purchase list in order to fill out my reading of a particular author, bought without much thought, and read with as much or as little appreciation as the contents ultimately warranted, but usually little anticipation unless the cover art was special.
Some were picked up on a lark due to interesting cover art (I particularly recall buying the first part of Clive Barker's "Imajica" due to the lurid cover art), a desire to read a new author, or an intention to branch out into new genres. Some were shitty old copies of out-of-print novels from used book stores, which was necessary because Amazon wasn't really big yet - and frankly, it is an outrage that some of those books were out of print (e.g., Isaac Asimov's, "The End of Eternity"). A few were acquired under truly memorable circumstances, such as my first-edition hardcover of John Barnes' and Buzz Aldrin's "Encounter With Tiber," autographed by Buzz Aldrin at Planetfest '97, where the first images from the Pathfinder rover were displayed straight from Mars. Some were stolen, during my brief teenage career as a rebel without a clue.
Some have smooth and sweet-smelling paper that turns easily with minimal noise, but requires finger-licking to get a hold on the pages and may rip easily. Some have rough, hide-like paper that will never rip, but is no particular pleasure to touch, and smells like sawdust. Some print is beautiful and dignified, easy on the eyes, and flows smoothly; some is cramped and painful to read. One of the memorably worst font offenders is my Del Rey copy of "2010: Odyssey Two" - the words look normal on casual inspection, but are of a font that becomes noticeably hard on the eyes after reading for a while. I can only assume they fixed that in subsequent editions.
Many were bought, read, and continue to be displayed for sheer love; most are displayed in memory of an experience, even if that experience was not particularly special; and some were bought, read, and displayed entirely for prestige and ego. I take inordinate pride in having read "War and Peace," despite not having enjoyed it - a pride I probably wouldn't have if not for the lingering sense of intellectual inadequacy that flies in the face of everything I'm told. In fact, while I'm proud I read it, at the time I had a nagging sense that I was somehow cheating by not learning Russian and French to read it in the original languages of its writing. This same ridiculous self-judgment has caused me to procrastinate reading Plutarch on the extremely improbable possibility that I might some day learn Latin.
The way I've always read is that I start from the right on the current shelf and my "reading queue" of unread books is to the left. When I move to a new shelf, I start from the right again. This is an entirely incidental result of arbitrary historical factors (I'd originally put my first books on the right side of a shelf as a kid). For the sake of anticipation, I like to have anywhere from 4 - 10 unread books in the queue at any given time. I take several factors into account in ordering the queue, so as not to overload on one series, one author, one genre, or one sub-genre. Books in a series are never consecutive - I always buffer them with at least one totally unrelated work by a different author, and usually more than one.
I will also never follow one nonfiction book with another, one poetic work with another, or one realistic fiction work with another - science fiction is my bread-and-butter genre, and fills me with energy and inspiration, so the vast majority of works are in that genre, while more grounded works tend to require some effort on my part (though usually rewarding to some extent). Thus I need to space out the educational / philosophical / diversity works among the imagination candy.
I have expelled a book from my stacks only once, because it was so shitty and outrageously insulting that I could not stomach even reading it in its entirety, let alone displaying it - Brian Herbert's horrendous blasphemy against his father's Dune literary legacy, "The Butlerian Jihad." There was no hesitation in my heart when I threw it into the garbage can. I will not even show an image of it - I would banish it from planet Earth, into a Washington Times serial printing if I could. There is also one book ("Reckoning Infinity," by John E. Stith) that I do keep in my stacks even though I judge it to be utter crap, because it never pretended to be anything more, and unlike "Butlerian Jihad," didn't defile a priceless literary universe. I also keep it because it has a nice cover, and...heh...I stole it (I was 13 years old) so I have no cause to complain. I got exactly what I paid for, in that case.
In one case, Anne Rice's "The Witching Hour," the book on my shelf is not the exact copy that I had read, because I had somehow lost the original - the original was a very large trade paperback, some 900 pages, and I replaced it with a small paperback on the reasoning that I might as well be cheap if I can't have the physical book I actually read.
What I read:
What's in my stacks:
My books have been more constant companions in my life than any human being by far - a refuge, a source of inspiration, a sense of hope, an experience of things beyond the ordinary, and an insight into other times, places, peoples, and possibilities. The first piece of furniture I independently purchased was a huge, dark wood bookcase, which was needed when I finally ran out of space in the hand-me-down bookcases I'd gotten from my parents. It stands strong, beautiful, and solid, like a dark brown Monolith in perfect proportion, towering over the room.
Most people seem to arrange their books in various types of logical order, perhaps grouped by size, author, or in alphabetical order. Mine, however, are in the exact order of reading, and I don't take size into account in my queues, so oversized paperbacks and hardcovers are dispersed throughout among the mass-market paperbacks - my stacks look like brilliant, multi-colored barcodes or key teeth from a distance.
Some people read for information - their minds dissect and digest what they behold, incorporate them into their knowledge base, and that's that. These people have no compunction about speed-reading, because in essence all they're doing is computational: They're remembering facts, dates, progressions of events, etc. They were probably book-report machines as kids, able to digest books in a flash and then regurgitate the key information without necessarily having seen it as anything more than a litany of facts. Perhaps they perceive stories from the outside, like shapes, and can appreciate the artistry involved, but I don't believe they experience what they read. Others read for the words, loving a clever turn of phrase, a poetic rhythm, a current of metaphor.
Me, I read for the story - as slowly and lovingly as the story merits - in order to experience it in all the richness it offers, however great or small that is. I wallow. I swim. If an event is too awesome to read just once, I'll read that sequence again and again, until I've had my fill and can move on satisfied. Usually the parts that catch me in these brief cycles of enjoyment are moments of turnabout, unexpected expansion of context, or sudden epiphany that strikes true. In those moments, all the other things - the feel of the paper, the smell of the book, the font of the print, the scenery of the setting, the feel of the characters, the scope of events, all wrap up into a single experience with the words, and it's just so beautiful.
I love reading trade paperbacks, because they tend to have relatively large pages with large print, and holding them open is easy, but they tend to age poorly if not specially cared for - the bindings crack, the plastic film over the covers may eventually begin to roll up at the corners, and the pages are large enough that accidentally ripping them when turning pages may be a problem. A mass-market paperback is much lighter, but you have to exert more force to keep them open while reading, the pages and lines are more cramped, and turning pages may be more difficult, but they tend to have more robust bindings and age better than oversized paperbacks if read only once. Hardcovers survive best and make for the best display, but reading them is more difficult for me (I read laying down, holding the book over my face) because of their relative weight, and they tend to have sturdier paper than oversized paperbacks requiring a lot of finger-licking to maintain traction on the pages.
Like New Car Smell, there is a New Book Smell that is unique to new books. Of course, different books smell different, but there are common strains that I love, and my favorite smells are Bantam/Spectra science fiction paperbacks and Penguin Classics trade paperbacks. Perhaps I have learned to associate the smell with the joy I get from reading them, but to me it just smells like wonder, mystery, and awe.
Now, I am not a book "collector," although I have a book collection. When I buy a book, I would prefer it be new unless I have no choice, but I won't balk at buying a used book. I will usually buy a paperback rather than a hardcover, because a paperback is cheaper. And I prefer a book with some imaginative cover art or photography rather than a bland cover with the title and author and some abstract imagery. I make no special effort to protect my books from the elements, because my love of them is not materialistic - I love the experience, not the object, even though I venerate the object as the representation and source of much of the sensory experience. I love many things. I am a lover. Books are one of my loves.
Some great covers in my stacks (in addition to The Hobbit and Blue Mars): (Some of the color nuances seem to be screwed up by the image processing)
Of course, "you can't judge a book by its cover." But you can certainly enjoy a book more for having a beautiful cover, and perhaps excuse some minor narrative failings for the imaginative boost one gets from a truly spellbinding piece of art on the front. A great cover can set the right tone, create a mood, and envelope the reader in the proper atmosphere to prepare them for the contents. The reverse is also true - I find I fall in love with covers that represent books I found were remarkable, but nevertheless, it's easier to fall in love when all the elements are right from the beginning.