book shelf

Yesterday I finished reading a collection of short fiction by Elizabeth Hand. It was my second reading. Today I finished reading a book I've never read before, Martin Dressler. I find myself empty handed, standing in the door way of the bath. I would like another book to read while I lay in the tub. But should it be something new? Something I cherish? What do I lose every time I read a book again, or read a new book that I don't care for? I bought the strange "sequel" of sort written by Stoker's descendant, but I haven't actually read Dracula in twenty years. I have hundreds of books, should I really be shopping for more? Can I bear to let them slip away? The clearance rack both fills me with excitement and melancholy.

I have begun at long last to prune things off my shelves that I did not enjoy, would not ever want to read again. I feel bad making the choice, as if I hurt this inanimate object's feelings. But I tell myself that the book will go to a better home and someone else will enjoy it. Except for that terribly written book on pineapples, that I wanted to be good and was an entirely new level of poor writing.

None of this brings me any closer to finding something to read for the afternoon