I had a dream where I checked into a hotel and discovered, to my utter delight, that the room assigned to me was a large library filled with old books. It was the happiest dream of my entire life.
I love books. Good books. And it’s not just about the enjoyment of reading. I love to acquire knowledge. I want to hold it in my hand and clutch it to my bosom. I like to know that the wisdom of the ages is available to me, even when it’s far down on my seemingly impossible reading list. I have endless questions, and books have endless answers. It’s a match made in heaven.
The painting of Der Bücherwurm (The Bookworm) by Carl Spitzweg exemplifies so much of my feeling about books. Here is this crazy old coot, books under each arm, in each hand, even between his knees, and he’s totally absorbed in what he’s reading, oblivious to the outside world (perhaps represented by the globe). And, the lucky guy, he is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves full of what look to be weighty tomes. This is my dream.