Books to the ceiling,
Books to the sky,
My pile of books is a mile high.
How I love them! How I need them!
I’ll have a long beard by the time I read them.
– Arnold Lobel
When I was cleaning out my closet over spring break, I discovered a poem I had copied into a notebook called The List by Naomi Shihab Nye (the title of this post is a line from the poem). It talks about a man who had made a list of all the books he was going to read in his life, and about the author’s sadness for the books he might find later and neglect.
I pity people who don’t like to read. In books, you can do so many things you can’t do in real life. You can listen to Sherlock Holmes rattle off your history the first time he meets you. You can walk into a wardrobe – and in, and in, and in. You can meet pretty much any historical figure. You can talk to kings and peasants, Jesus and Robin Hood, Anne of Green Gables and Samwise Gamgee. Books can take you anywhere; cliché, I know, but true.
I pretty much always have at least one book with me. I read at meals. I read while walking down the hall. I read at work. I read before class. Sometimes I read during computer class while waiting for other people to catch up (which the teacher is fine with, in case you’re wondering). I have way too many books on my t0-read list. I work in the library and want to be a librarian.