I like books. Not necessarily just from reading them, because there is some sort of weird, subliminal joy which I get from walking around with a whole thick stack of books in my arms; the same sort of pleasure I feel when I look at a row of mint-condition books neatly arranged on a bookshelf. There is some sort of power that a book grants you as you hold it in your hand (power directly proportional to thickness, of course)- something that just seeps through your fingertips and travels straight to the part of the head which keeps words and phrases and quaint little quotes.
Part of me thinks that I’m not actually in love with reading per se, but with the idea of reading. I capriciously pick titles, most of them of which are consistent with my pledge earlier this year to read as many books from the Modern Library’s Top 100 Novels (my current score is 4/100, which is a decidedly pitiful figure). Making book choices based on the decisions of a few old men and women huddled up in a room is probably not the best way one can go around choosing books, but much can be deduced from how I view book.
I read to feel powerful- the kingdom that I wish to build is not of bricks or wealth, but of words. The same reason probably motivates my subscription to the Economist, and it probably also explains my frantic, wide-eyed hysteria when I pick up my book, only to find its spine creased, or its pages dog-eared.