Huh! It’s a couple of days into January and I’ve already broken my blogging New Year resolution.
You know, the resolution I declared on 31st December 2019 that I would not to do any bookish challenges for 2020. Here on this very blog.
What a loser, fallen at the first hurdle! And what is this heinous oath-breaking I’ve committed? You’ll gasp with shock when you’re told. It’s — I can barely bear to say it — something that will freeze the blood of every bibliophile who ever tremblingly anticipated entering a bookshop, taking a book off a shelf, opening it …
I’ve resolved to see how long I can go in 2020 without acquiring a new book.
It’s genuinely distressing, is it not? How can any human, let alone a booklover, subject themselves to such torture, however would they survive such an assault on their equilibrium, how indeed could they submit to such intellectual impoverishment?
But you understand, don’t you. You’ll have reached a stage before now when your rate of discarding was overtaken by the rate of yielding to temptation. You’ve seen yourself shamefacedly placing books lengthways across neatly packed vertical books when you’d run out of shelf space. You’ve doubtless succumbed to using cardboard boxes as temporary storage, pretending they were intended as containers to take surplus books to the charity shop.
You have, haven’t you, overconsumed — go on, admit it. It isn’t just me, is it?
So, what now? Well, I’m going to rely only on books I’ve hoarded, squirreled away, saved for a rainy day. I’m going to pretend the rainy day has in fact come — as many of you can vouch for — and I shall explore and discover what treasures I’ve kept, in many cases from last century, unbeknown to me, neglected and forlorn for two or possibly three house moves.
And I shall try not to break this resolution for, oooh, quite a few days.
By the way, library books don’t count, do they?