I’ve been collecting books for about thirty years. At first, they were of a more juvenile stripe, which made sense, as I was a juvenile myself at the time. Then I went through a “serious” phase, which I now call my “too serious” phase (it wasn’t all bad, as that was when a lot of Penguins and Oxford World’s Classics editions found their way onto my shelves). Now I’ve reached the point where I tend to disdain the new (but not always) and go back looking for those things that I missed when I was younger. I find that I somehow avoided encountering certain authors in the course of my education, despite the best efforts of my teachers. On top of that, there are many other books that I feel that I should have read, but haven’t. In fact, I can’t think what I’ve been doing with my time.
I read most anything, as long as it has at least a tangential connection to the things that interest me. That in turn is a long list, the contents of which will become evident the more I write on this blog. But it does mean that many of my books are only partially read, because – although I don’t always finish them straightaway – I always make a start on almost every single book that I purchase.
My library is heavy on classic literature and poetry, mysteries and detective fiction, science fiction, as well as non-fiction including history, science, politics, and music. Currently, I have somewhere over three thousand volumes (I would be more precise, but I am still cataloguing them), and my lifetime reading total is roughly a third of that number. Obviously, that means that I have a long way to go, which is a shame, considering how slowly I seem to read.