It shouldn't be a surprise to anyone that I love collecting books, and am picky about how keeping track of which ones I have and how they're arranged to the point of being downright OCD. We've got bookworms and book pack rats on both sides of the family. Teacher, my DNA ate my sanity, can I go home?
So of course, I was ecstatic then, when last weekend we were going through some old things, and I found a big book!
Look at that big book.
|If you can't read that, it's the complete novels of Charles Dickens.|
It doesn't look that big.
|Yes, that is my hand.|
It's actually about a foot tall and wider than my hand, all 2000+ pages of it. It was still in its plastic wrap, unopened, but there were lots of holes, and it was falling off. I might have helped it along a bit.
That's when I realized that this thing is older than I am. It had been sitting quietly buried somewhere all this time, never read.
I'd better get reading.
What, it's not just there to make my bookshelf look fancy!