I've been buying books lately. This is something entirely new for me. The local library, up until now, has been adequate for my reading needs. It has housed my favorite novels; it handed me Archangel and White Oleander.
Recently, it isn't enough. I don't know if I need to spend money, or if it's because one of my best friends works at a bookstore, but something compels me to embrace my new habit. I can wear out my own copy of Shakespeare's Complete Works. I can't do that to a stamped and laminated library book.
My local library may carry Sedaris, but that is its only redeeming quality. Jan Karon and Jack Weyland line aisle upon aisle. Stephen King and Mary Higgins Clark are rich in shelf space. Nothing new to discover here; waters have been long charted. No recommendations necessary.
Shelves are filled with Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott. Books like old friends. They patiently wait for me to come and find them again, while I run out to play with Kissing in Manhattan and The Perks of Being a Wallflower. They're wonderful and new, and I've bought so many. From Shakespeare to a makeup book (for my non-existent coffee table) to a quasi-childrens' book presented in postcard-and-letter format, I have found fabulous companions.
There is really something to be said for the old ones, though.
I didn't have to buy them.