As I’ve been reading more and thinking more about reading lately, I’ve been pondering my collection of Stephen King paperbacks. I rarely read anything by King anymore. I have read maybe half of my collection and will certainly not re-read those that I have finished in the next decade. They take up at least one whole book shelf (I’m pretty sure there are more in a box somewhere) and I don’t have a lot of bookshelf space to spare.
January 11, 2008
So what is the sense of this hoarding? It’s silly, right? But I’ve had them for almost half my lifetime and for quite a while they were nearly all I read. I even wrote a paper in a college English class comparing the first several pages of one novel (I can’t remember which one but I know I haven’t read it) to Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. And maybe some day, one of my children will become as infatuated with King as I once was and I could pass my collection on to them. But then I’d be denying them the pleasure of seeking out and collecting these books — especially the lessor-known ones — on their own.
So I think the collection and I will soon part ways. I’ll have to do it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
And is the bigger question: Why do I agonize over such ridiculous choices?
(points to the first person to guess my favorite Stephen King book)