This weekend, Jason and I had a conversation we've had many times before. It began when I mused that perhaps we should pull the book shelves away from the wall (they catty-corner around a, uh, corner) and dust/clean behind them. I'm pretty sure there is a picture or two and maybe a book back there.
Then the conversation ensued:
Jason: I really need to go through all my books in the spare room and get rid of at least 50% of them.
Me: Yes, I need to go through these out here and do the same.
We've had this conversation at least twice a year for years now and still, we have ten trillion books shoved in every corner of the house.
We should probably just codify the entire conversation:
Current reading list:
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (just re-read Order of the Phoenix and The Half Blood Prince)
Twilight by Stephenie Meyer (a young adult vampire tale). I've nibbled on the first chapter enough to know I want to go ahead with the whole book.
Presents from Jason because we discussed Mark Twain and the desire in some quarters to remove the "N" word from Huck Finn and I mentioned I'd like to expand my Twain reading beyond the books that were required by my high school:
The Innocents Abroad, or The New Pilgrim's Progress and (on my son's ultra groovy half brother's recommendation) Following the Equator.
In the stack:
What's the Matter with Kansas? by Thomas Frank
The Big Squeeze by Steven Greenhouse
Nixonland by Rick Perlstein
It's a fine line we walk, between bibliophile and biblioholic.
I fully admit to my powerlessness over books but Jason still thinks he is just a lover of books.
Thor sez: Frankly, I don't understand why you stare a marks on a page when you could be looking at my abundance of cuteness.