I am a sucker for bookstores and libraries. The thought of the amount of ink that has been spilled over the course of centuries excites me.  The thought of a Kindle petrifies me.  I love books.  Each bound page is someone's opus, thesis, or work of art. I sometimes wonder what my life would look like if I just read book after book, only stopping to eat and sleep.  How many could I get through?

My family knows this about me, so every Christmas I come home with another armful of books: Cookbooks, literature, non-fiction.  It's marvelous. Then a funny thing happens. I just let them sit there for weeks on end, scared to bend their crisp covers. They are pretty and untouched. Their mysteries yet to be unfolded. I don't want them to be over with so quickly or to disappoint. Someone's life work gobbled up in a matter of a  month. I want to appreciate it longer.