Like most people who read, I have my stack of titles that I "intend" to read some day, but just haven't gotten around to pursuing. This past Saturday, I spent a few minutes perusing my library at home and discovered that I've got a least fifty books that are in waiting for me to read: some in piles, some tucked neatly away between other noteworthy books, and a few that I purchased years ago but have forgotten about all together.
I've got several biographies that fit the bill--one thick tome on Mark Twain that I've been intending to read for years, and another on John D. Rockefeller that is nearly 800 pages long (who writes an 800 page book? and what kind of a loser buys a book like this with the intention of reading it?). I also found two histories, one entitled--The Autumn of the Middle Ages--which is a cult classic among Mideaval scholars (who do I think I am?) and 1491 (a history of the America's before Columbus sailed the ocean blue), both of which remain on the shelves collecting dust. Believe it or not, I am excited about the prospects of reading these some day and taking my place among the few, the proud, the isolated.
When I moved to Brownsburg, I purged my library of hundreds of books. But now they have found me again. When I die, my wife won't have to buy a casket. She can just encase me in pages, butter them up, and roll me in a few salted nuts. I'm going to speak to the funeral director next week about preplanning my service in this vein. Got any cashews?
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