It doesn’t matter how many books I have, I will always want more.
Even when my shelves are overflowing and the piles of books without a home grow taller, I’ll still go out and buy something new.
I can have dozens of unread downloads on my Kindle, and more books borrowed from the library than I can possibly get through in the allotted three weeks, but still I can’t resist the lure of something new.
Perhaps it’s a case of the shiny new thing being more alluring than the book I bought years ago; the book that has never appealed to me beyond that first moment when I pulled it off the shelf and carried it breathlessly to the checkout.
Perhaps I’m indecisive, or greedy, or fickle. Possibly all three.
But what I think is this: every new book has something precious held between those covers. It’s the possibility that most intrigues me.
It’s the idea that each new story can transport me to another place, or another time. It can introduce me to new characters and worlds, or teach me about periods of history that I know nothing about.
Each new novel could be the one that changes my life. It could afford a glimpse into the mind of a kindred spirit, or introduce me to a literary talent that will take my breath away.
I’ll always keep buying books because each one is the chance to experience that perfect set of emotions that come when you discover a story that touches you deeply.
I can never get enough of that feeling.