Too Many Books

I’m almost out of time. Doom looms like a thundercloud on the horizon.

So, here I wait, surrounded by books haphazardly stacked and in my bookcases. It’s only an estimate, but about half of them remain untouched and undervalued, like red-headed stepchildren.

I can’t part with them. Yes, I just gave a sibling dozens of 25-cent volumes rescued from thrift shops and library sales. The rest remain mine, sacrosanct extensions of my mind and heart.

My personal library ranges from history and political philosophy to theater and urban fantasy. It reflects my interests, prejudices and potential tastes. I’m acquainted with many rich and enlightening minds. They helped mold me into who I am.

My books are a source of wealth. No one else values them as much as I do. Nor can I make anyone. As Robert Frost wrote in a very different context, “Americans are like a rich father who wishes he knew how to give his sons the hardships that made him rich.”

These books are my legacy. Now if I could just get all of them read.