During my adult life, it has been a rare week when I didn’t visit at least a couple of used book stores. I suffer from Biblioholism: n. [BIBLIO + HOLISM] book, of books: the habitual longing to purchase, read, store, admire and consume books in excess. I have always been steadfast in resisting treatment for my passion.
Since July, I have been so consumed by illness that I have not even thought of a used bookstore. On Saturday the old urge was upon me. While it was exhausting, I ventured out for a couple of hours. Immersion in that sacred space lifted the fog and fatigue a bit. I bought volumes on Hume and Arendt and came home and read some Chekhov.
I concur with Samuel Beckett: “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.”