We have a lot of books. Ten years ago when we moved into the condo we jettisoned a bunch. Boxes full of Kennedy Assassination books and monographs. Stacks of computer books. A couple of bags of books on Bridge. Inevitably, if we become vaguely interested in something, we collect books about it. Sometimes our interest remains and sometimes it doesn't. Often the books stick around. I have quite a collection of Nabokov novels as well as a collection of his lectures, probably some letter collections and his autobiography (Speak, Memory). Also a story collection. I have a shelf full of James Joyce biographies, copies of novels (several of Ulysses), etc. Even our artwork can take on a book theme as seen in the altered books of Lance Letscher.
All these books and how many have I actually read or consulted? I keep one beside my bed at all times and, usually, finally finish it. My husband reads about four times as many as I do and so there are lots that he has read and talked about and that I want to make time to read.
I think I could become a recluse and never venture out to bookstores or the library or get another newspaper or magazine and could read for years without reading the same thing twice. As it should be, I guess. Never be short of words. I even have old yellowing copies of The New Yorker in my car just in case I ever am caught without words to read. Of course, these days we usually have a gadget that links us to books, news stories and more.
Even our annual jigsaw puzzle is on theme: