I love books. Not so much the reading of them, more the concept. It gives the impression of intellect to have lots of books around. Doesn’t matter so much what they are; few visitors get so close that they can read the spines. Quantity, in many cases, impresses more than quality. Older is better than newer. And having them all over the place, rather than stacked neatly in cases, really shows everyone how brainy you are, so much so that you can’t be bothered to keep them in order.
Spring is my favorite time of year, and not just because it’s the harbinger of the new baseball season. It’s also when the new baseball books rush to the stores.
God bless Amazon; it allows me to see what books are coming down the pike by specifying the publication date in the search parameters.
Reviewing books has allowed me to build my library to over 2,000 volumes, 1,500 of which are baseball-oriented. They’re up in the attacking, threatening to crash down through the bedroom ceiling. Like the good librarian I used to want to be, I have them divided by topic. One of these days I’m going to go through the biography section and see how many “flavors of the month” came out with autobiographies in the wake of a special event (Lenny Dykstra’s Nails, coming on the heels of the Mets’ World Championship in 1986 leaps to mind). They would make a nice sub-genre.