The things I do with books

I read them. Voraciously. Anytime. Everywhere.

I write them. Or try to do so – at least.

I translate them, I decipher their intricacies in a foreign language and convey them in a different language.

I blog about them to share my passion for their stories and characters.

I collect them, more like a hoarder than like your average hobbyist.

I proofread them; correct their style, polish their grammar, embellish their vocabulary.

I review them. I judge them not with facts, but with emotions. I describe the feelings I get from reading them.

I recommend them. Just tell me which genre you’re looking for and I will have some titles ready.

I give them as a present. Almost always. Practically always.

I talk about them. You really don’t want to get me started on a book topic.

I spy them. In bookstores, libraries, other people’s houses.

I wish for them. I get hungrier and hungrier with each new addition to my wishlist.

I buy them. Sometimes compulsively, sometimes after a lot of thought.

I watch them in movie/theatre adaptations (are there any movies not based on books these days anyway?)

I listen to them in audio format: the sky is the limit.

I carry them around in a big fat bag.

I surround myself with them. It feels safer that way; no matter where I go, there will be some at hand.

I sniff them – we all do that, don’t judge me.

I study them, their knowledge is endless.

I donate them when I believe other people will enjoy them more than I do.

I discover them in little, hidden, precious bookstores.

I share them -only with reliable friends- but I’m not going to forget to ask for it back.

I love them.


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