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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