If a velociraptor came crashing through the windows and chased me through the house, I might try to throw something at it like…say…a book conveniently gathering dust on the nearest shelf. This would be the first time I touched said book–let’s call it Great Expectations–since I put it there four years before, but I can imagine the volume fluttering open just before hitting the raptor in his stupid face. Time would slow, and I would catch a single line on a single page that would tear through me. I’d remember everything–the whole story. I would be Pip, pine for Estella, and stare at dead cake. The book would mean something again, and right before the raptor bit my head off, I would reconnect with my past self and wonder why I never took time to reread any of the books I’d lugged through two moves and painstakingly arranged (okay, threw) on a gorgeous wooden bookshelf (slapped together from Walmart).
Just gazing at broken spines doesn’t do it for me. I need to read a book. My memory sucks as it is and every day that passes takes me further away from the moment I close a book’s cover and shout, “Awesome!” The most recent books I’ve read aren’t even on that bookshelf. They’re from the library or digital. So why do I cling to these dusty relics? Why do I still have paperbacks from high school and used books from college? Really, there is no rational reason for holding onto these paper bricks…except as ammunition for the coming dino apocalypse.
Do you hold onto books you know you’ll never read again? Expound upon your madness below.
Michelle Joyce Bond