I readily submit to you, dear friends, a confession. I am an addict. I am obsessed with books. I simply cannot stop acquiring them. Bookstores, peddlers and pushers of all my desires, must be wholly avoided at times. I once stayed at the Library Hotel in NYC and spent an entire evening with my nose planted in every aged volume, submerging myself in the aroma of weathered paper. The snap of a spine and crackle of a translucent cover performed a symphony varying in depth depending on the heft of each tome.
Ritually, in that lull between Christmas day and the New Year, I find myself ambling along the aisles of my nearest book retailer. Arms weighted with anthologies to autobiographies, hours escape the day, pecuniary concerns have fled, and I ultimately saunter out accompanied by fog of utter ecstasy.
This year a list will chaperone me.
Yes, THAT book. Yes, I’m the last person on the planet to purchase it. I also have never seen Titanic, but that’s more out of obstinacy than any other influence.
On recommendation from Lisa Borgnes Giramonti at A Bloomsbury Life:
2. Punch3. A Perfectly Kept House Is The Sign Of A Misspent Life
The latter is an attempt to relax my rigid Virgoan deportment.
4. And anything by Beverley Nichols
These should keep me occupied until February, when the cycle invariably repeats itself.
What, dear reader, is your unconquerable addiction?