The Book Hoarder IV.a

I hold my brother directly responsible for my graduating from the blue, red, and golden book of fairy-tales to youth reads before the city librarians would approve; from Karl May’s adventure novels of the American Old West and Jules Verne’s extraordinary voyages to Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series.

My weekly pilgrimage to the library started in the room I shared with my brother growing up. Stretched or curled up in our beds (his under the window, mine along the opposite wall), we gobbled up books at every chance we got. As I glanced at him from time-to-time over my pages, I’d see him be fervently engaged in his reading, sometimes crying, often laughing out loud. So each time he left the room, I’d run over to his bed, to find out what his book was saying. And when he was gone for long, I would start from the beginning, and attempt to catch up to the page he was on.

After one such occasion, he came home and settled in for reading, and suddenly knitted his brow, “Did you touch my book?” … “Nooo…”, replied the terrible liar that I always was. He thought for a while as he shuffled the pages to find his spot, and then added, “It’s okay to read my book when I’m not home, but mark the page I was on”. He even had the courtesy to ask me if I was done with a book, before he took it back to the library. That is, if I was at home when he was planning to do so.

…But one time I wasn’t there, and he took something back that I had not finished yet! When faced with my indignation, he shrugged his shoulder, “Go borrow it for yourself”. And a new chapter of my life started.

#books #reading #library