I think the fact that my third IKEA catalog in as many weeks arrived today is some sort of subtle hint from the Powers That Be: the book situation is seriously out of control. My apartment is beginning to remind me of Trefusis’s office (from The Liar): Books. Books and books and books. And then, just when an observer might be lured into thinking that that must be it, more books. Barely a square inch of wood or wall or floor was visible. Walking was only allowed by pathways cut between the piles of books. Treading these pathways with books waist-heigh either side was like negotiating a maze. Trefusis called the room his ‘librarinth’. Areas where seating was possible were like lagoons in a coral strand of books.

Putting aside for the moment the sheer amount of field archeology involved in digging out my copy of that book in order to find the passage I wanted and ignoring also the fact that I had to find another book in order to give you an impression of my own book situation: I have quite a few books. The trouble is that I can’t seem to stop acquiring them, no matter how hard I try. First it was those little streetcorner book stands that seem to operate entirely from a pair of card tables or (in really upscale cases) the back of someone’s van. I found this particular guy who always, always has stacks of battered but certainly readable philosophy books that I just can’t resist. It’s hard to turn down Kant for a dollar or even Russell for two.

And then, as if that weren’t enough, I’ve started walking between NYU and my train station such that I pass the Strand twice a day, or more specifically the Strand’s fifty cent and dollar racks outside. And when they’re right out there on the sidewalk, it’s really hard to ignore racks and racks of books you can buy for pocket change. Some days I don’t find anything but others - good lord, back issues of Granta and Vintage Contemporaries galore.

So, yeah. Over the years but particularly since I returned to school I’ve acquired many, many more books than my apartment really ought to hold - primarily because I still don’t own a single set of bookshelves. I’ve got them stacked up everywhere; piles and heaps on every available surface. In fact, I would venture to say that the piles of books we’re talking about here are really more ranges than anything else. Like the Rockies, except peaks of contemporary short fiction and cliffs of classical texts in moral philosophy. Which I mean that’s great until I actually want to find and read one of them, when things become a bit complex. And then this catalog shows up to tempt me along with its predecessors. So many attractive and inexpensive options - if I’m willing to schlepp to Jersey or Long Island. And I’m not sure any Swedish furniture artist is worth that epic journey (think Frodo and Mount Doom).

Damn you, IKEA catalog. Damn you to hell.