Ma came to visit me today and dropped off a book that I might need for a research project. I'd left it at home and asked her to look for it, which I knew would be problematic because I have so many books. Too many, she might say.
Sure enough, as we sat together over dinner she complained about the trouble she had to go through to find that one book. She was awed by the number of other books she found, and the variety of places in which she found them. Mind you, these are written treasures that I've accumulated from elementary school to the present: lining bookshelves, left in bags and old backpacks, piled onto desks, stacked in storage bins and drawers and cabinets, laying out in the open. Most read but many yet-to-be-read.
I know Ma was half-joking about it, but I fail to see what the problem is. After all, you can never, and I mean absolutely never, have too many books. Right? So I said to her:
Who bought most of those books?
Who now has a child who can actually read and enjoys reading?
I thought so.
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