David, my husband, came into the bedroom and stubbed his toe against a pile of my books on the floor. I was the first to admit my novel acquisitions were out of hand. I had “to be read” stacks all over our home, along with shelves stuffed with volumes I’d already devoured.

But David was in a bad mood — trouble at work — and he let loose a flurry of complaints. But the thrust of it was: Why the fuck did I need so many books? All this stuff could be electronically stored on a tablet, which would take up a hell of a lot less space. Blah, blah, blah.

I let him have his say because he wasn’t wrong. I did buy too many books, though there were far worse habits to have. However, I rarely got on him about all the sports gear he had around because I knew he loved racquetball and tennis and... Read More