There Are Worse Things

I have a problem with books. I love them intensely. A deep yearning for all books, a compulsive addiction.

Years ago, I decided to stop acquiring books. Very difficult at first, gradually I've come to terms with my choice. Besides, there's always the library.
So when Tristan called asking me to pick up a book for his auntie while I was in the city, I though nothing of it.

But it was in the fiction section, under "c" and right beside Copeland. Douglas and I have been apart for far too long! And Dahl, right on the next shelf. A collection of Fitzgerald's short stories. I love short stories! Oh wait, didn't Owen say I absolutely had to check out Aline Kominsky-Crumb's graphic novels? Yes, he did!

A few minutes ogling the shelf of Penguin Classics in their ever-so appealing orange and white covers. Past Sci-Fi & Fantasy. Well, not quite: Philip K. Dick on the top and why has it been so long since I've read anything by him?! Wow, someone turned The Master & Margarita -- one of my favorites -- into a graphic novel; it's not very well done. But the graphic novel edition of Metamorphosis looks grand! What a good idea...

***

About an hour later, I rouse out of a paper-&-ink-induced stupor, on the floor surrounded by small piles of books and graphic novels. I stagger to my feet, complete my seemingly straightforward task, and stumble hazy and disoriented into the thick heat of Adelaide.

Right: Adelaide. Australia... I should endeavor to experience real life.

***

Down the crowded walkway, my brain fondly, obsessively, revisits the words, the covers, the bindings, the smell....

Addiction is addition is addiction.