Confessions of a bookaholic

They say the first step towards getting better is acceptance. So here goes: I am a bookaholic. I am addicted to books. It doesn’t matter what kind or how much, as long as they have printed text and are reasonably bound together, they have to be mine – if they aren’t already. I like to buy, own, horde and read books. I have this innate fear that if I don’t buy the book I see on the shelf now, it won’t be there the next time and I will live the rest of my life in regret. Like most people with an addiction, I don’t mind sharing. In fact, chances are if I know you, I’d probably give you a book for your birthday… and then buy another copy of the same book as a replacement.

The sad part is that most people don’t take me seriously. I mean, how can being a bookaholic (if you will) be considered as a ‘serious’ condition? It is. It really is. Whenever I go to the mall, I let my bookaholic instinct lead me to the nearest bookstore. Once outside, I stare at the sheer number of (unread) books that lie there, like precious gems, rows upon rows, on the bookshelves. And I think to myself: ‘someday I’m going to have a room like that’. I stare at all of the hot best-sellers propped up at the display, trying hard not to puke – I hate best sellers, I think they are an insult to ‘serious’ book reading – but some of them end do end up looking interesting.

I try to reason with myself: I have books, lots of them, I don’t ‘need’ more, I’ve already spent a lot of money buying the last stack that I haven’t finished reading yet. The person inside me keeps repeating in a tiny voice ‘don’t do it. Don’t do it’. We both know that once inside, there is no going back to the old, pocket-filled-with-available-allowance to spend on ‘other’ things. Eventually, the little voice begins to fade away as my legs compulsively lead me towards the entrance of the bookstore, where the shopkeepers stand poised with perfect smiles and baited-breaths to greet me. They’re vultures, all of them. What’s worse is they know they have me trapped.

Once inside, I stop and take a deep breath. The air smells of books, freshly printed, completely dust-free books. The second my brain identifies their scent is when vulture no.1 makes a move. The others pretend to busy themselves behind other bookcases, peering at us now and then to see how successful vulture no.1 has been in securing a book sale. They’re hoping I’ll venture into their territory next.

Vulture no.1 will push a book near my face, either a best-seller or a new arrival. Sitting down on one of their comfortable sofa-chairs, I’ll scan the little summary at the back, storing information about the published date, comments, overall storyline, typeface used, illustration, color et cetera. Once done, I will ever so carefully flip the book open to the opening chapter and read the first couple of lines, if they’ve managed to hold my interest, I’ll flip to the middle of the book and read a couple of lines from there. As a rule, I never read the ending. That’s a big no-no where book buying in my world is concerned, what’s the point if you already know what’s going to happen? By this time, one of the many books lying on their table will have caught my attention and I’d have started storing information about it, much in the same way as with the first book.

Once done, and with the rest of the vultures hovering around, I’ll take a quick glance at the bookcase in front of me. If my eyes happen to rest on a particular book, it’s promptly bought to me by the nearest vulture who would also be giving me a summarized account of the book. If I seem interested in knowing about the author, four or five other books by that particular person will appear, as if out of thin air. It’s pure magic to my brain, which at that point, blurs the vultures out and seeks only to identify objects with a printed font on it.

If my attention is already caught by a book and if the side of my brain which is aware of what is going on around me, registers a possible intrusion by a vulture who may be brining a book which I have not commanded be brought in my presence, I will merely hold my hand up as a sign to show that I must not be disturbed. That vulture would eventually shrink into the shadows while the others would glare at his possible impudence. Most of them have learnt to leave me alone at this stage of my book buying spree. At this point, it is I who decides what books I shall be exposed to. I get up, examine every book, big and small that catches my fancy and bring it back to my table and devour appetizer-sized contents of it.

Eventually I will find myself at the counter, with the cash machine going beep with every book whose bar code is scanned. I hand them my book club card and I get my much-deserved discount and book club ‘points’. While I take with me, an expensive set of books that seem to weigh a little more than a ton, I walk with a sense of satisfaction: with my beloved books assuring me endless hours of company and awareness, I have found peace at last.

First Published:

Books & Authors

July 8, 2007