The Inner Conflict of a Self-Professed Bibliophile

There is nothing quite as thrilling nor as painful as purchasing books for the upcoming semester.

First, the exciting bit. I get immense satisfaction from the steady stream of packages containing bound volumes of knowledge. The books always look so smart lined up next to each other, making a proud display of their motley titles. Shall I line them up according to size? Color? Subject? My preferred look is "absent-minded professor style": no system, giving the row the pretty effect of a rainbow gone awry. Then comes the insurmountable pleasure of getting to actually read those books, and to share my wonder (or sometimes, lack thereof) with my fellow scholars. There is a special bond that arises from suffering through a text or sharing its joy. Finally, there comes the contentment of looking over the titles on the bookshelf knowing that I've read -- or sampled -- every last one. The process of ordering books is a promise of new experiences. Of course it's exciting!

Then comes the terrifying part. With every book comes this dreaded little thing called a price tag. Instead of seeing numbers, I see hours spent at work. "Ah, I see this one is going to cost an hour and a half. There's a closing shift... Early shift... Paid break..." I mean, I knew this day would come. I knew there would come a time where I would have to dip into the little horde of payroll checks I had stowed away in my cave of a savings account. Yet no amount of foreknowledge could prepare me for the emotions of this day. And I know that soon the trickle will turn into a rushing river of bills, bills, bills...

This double-edged sword of perfect joy and perfect fear practically cuts to the heart of me, especially while staring at the comparative prices of Amazon Marketplace. My passionate love affair with books is pitted against my practical side, the side that lends thrift stores their charm and transforms free grocery store samples into feasts. Used bookstores play to the different corners of my heart and like sirens lure me towards their own fatal rocks.

See me? "Good condition". Don't you like good condition? And I'm cheap, gloriously cheap! Never mind if my dust jacket is missing, I'm beautiful on the inside, that's what counts. That extra three dollars could go a long way towards buying you a pizza this semester..

My mouth waters. Did I mention I love food as well?


No, don't mind him! Choose me! "Acceptable condition". Who cares about a few annotations, anyway? Perhaps I'll turn out to be just like Harry Potter's potions book. I could be your Half-Blood Prince. I could instruct you in literary insights so grand your mind would ache! Besides, don't you love the idea of reading someone else's handwriting? Surely there's a story there!

Well, I do love the idea of finding some little treasures in the margins. But what if they're distracting? What if they have wretched penmanship and doodle caricatures of classmates in between paragraphs? I'm not sure I could stand that!


Over here! See me? I'm brand new, straight from Amazon. No surprises here. I'm strong and steady, predictable, familiar. I smell like fresh ink and possibility. No torn pages, highlighters, or pencil marks. Never mind if I cost a few cents extra. Since when did $1.99 ever break the bank? 

You do have a point. But how long until my collection of $1.99 splurges add up to a whole book-worth? In just over a month, I'll be attending social functions with the express purpose of picking up free food. I don't have change to spare! I'm on the brink of being a starving college student again! No longer will sandwiches be free and made with love. The tip will not be taken care of and there will not be half a dozen types of cereal to choose from at any given moment. What say you to that, oh leather bound temptress!?

 

Sigh. Being a Hermione Granger can be tough in this economic climate.

Images: one, two, three