One day I will have bookshelves all over my walls. You’ll need ladders to reach the top. And the ladders will be on runners, so you can skate from one end of the room to the other, whizzing past books, breathing their special smell and seeing their coloured covers blur past your nose.
That will be my room.
So far I have two bookshelves, crammed with books mind you, and a desk, stuffed with more books. But it’s nto the same as ceiling high bookshelves.
When my room looks like that, I will have to find all the books to fit in those shelves. To stuff those shelves to overflowing. Nothing, no nothing, is worse than a hollow, empty, hungry looking bookshelf. It almost seems like slander to a bookshelf if its empty.
I’ll have Dickens and C.S. Lewis and Tolkien and Suzanne Collins and Lene Kaaberbol and even Micheal Grant, and I’ll introduce them all. They’ll be siting next to each other after all. I’ll put on my favourite historical fiction writers (Elizabeth George Speare and Eloise Jarvis MacGraw) and then I’ll stuff the gaps with the little books, the fun, the lively, the laughable, the twaddle. And the nonsense books? Don’t forget Lewis Carroll. Don’t forget a bit of Roald Dahl.
I’ll have different kinds of books on my ceiling reaching bookshelves. They won’t be stacked in order of height either. Not even in order of alphabetical-ness. (This is what happens when you can’t backspace). They’ll be stacked in order of how they should be read. They’ll be stacked so I can reach the one I want when I think about it.
And all I’ll have to do is climb a ladder and get my book down.