Sometimes a book may sit on my shelf for months - years - before I get around to reading it. Some of this is merely laziness, certainly, especially if I suspect the book in question might have some Literary Merit. Sometimes, however, the reason for my inattention is more indeterminate. I pass it over again and again when I peruse my "Unread" shelf. I am interested in it; I am looking forward to reading it, but today just simply isn't the day to begin. I am not ready, I am not in the right frame of mind, I am not reading it yet. I might feel guilty about it (especially if it is one of those with several years worth of dust patina), and make a halfhearted attempt to read the first chapter, but put it down again before I really sink my teeth in.
Occasionally, I will stand before my bookcase, lips slightly pursed as I reject all my usual favorites. My eyes will pass by one of my neglected lovies out of habit, then pause and return. My gaze might linger consideringly upon its spine for several minutes before I pluck the book from its shelf and blow away the dust. I'll look at the cover, read a blurb by another author I might or might not respect. I'll idly flip the pages, weighing its contents by the feel of them passing my fingers. And maybe, just maybe, I'll take that book with my to my favorite comfy corner and immerse myself in it. Strangely, I hardly ever read the back of the book during this evaluation. The book's plot has somehow become immaterial to me.
Rarely am I disappointed by one of the books I've saved for myself. Sometimes its an author I love, who doesn't publish books frequently enough to quench my thirst, and so I draw out the anticipation as long as possible. (I certainly don't draw out the actual reading. I may start out with that intention, but I'll be devouring phrases by the time I've hit the third paragraph.) More often, it's a book that caught my attention for reasons long forgot. I've found many new favorites this way.
And so, when my husband rants that I have a problem, that buying new books when I've some at home I haven't read is insane, that I'm already in the middle of three and can't possible be that ADD, I smile and know he's never had the pleasure of reading something that's been tickling the edges of his awareness for years and finding it to be beyond all of his hopes and imaginings. (He may, however, have a point about the run-on sentences.)
