So why am I still buying books? Why do my shelves glare back at me with pristine, uncracked spines from end to end? There’s something so satisfying about buying a book, isn’t there? You feel like you’re going on an adventure. The sight of it slipping into a carrier bag – don’t forget these things are 5p in the UK now, so it’s an even bigger investment – is joyous. It’s an old cliche about “new book smell” I know, but sometimes cliches are true, and it really is beautiful. My intentions are always good. I promise this time it will be different – but life, and laziness, tend to intervene.
The Guyliner: why am I addicted to buying books I’ll never read?