It’s only been over the last few years that I’ve started to admit this to myself: I have an acquisitive nature. I’d been denying it for a long time because I’m not by nature a collector. I seldom care about having the complete set of something, and when I do it’s usually just by way of a mild curiosity. I will pick up the issues of the Wagner/Grant/Breyfogle Detective Comics run that I’m missing, but I won’t pay a lot for them or go very far out of my way.
What this means is that my bookshelves have a certain magpie’s-nest quality about them. I suppose this relates in a way to what I was saying the other day about being a fox rather than a hedgehog.
I often feel guilty because I buy books faster than I can read them — or rather, I binge-buy cheap books (I am frugal in this as in all things) but can’t read eight of them at once, so some of them just never get looked at.
However, this has its upsides, too: for instance, with the news of Alan Rickman’s passing, I thought I’d try to watch his film A Little Chaos for next week’s Movie Monday, only I don’t know much about the historical period it’s set in. Then I realised I own a book on landscape gardening in 17th-century France. Bought it about 10 years ago, never read it other than to look at some of the pretty pictures, and have carried it through like five house moves. And now, finally, my foresight is rewarded.