My beloved daughter, Elizabeth, is most definitely a bookworm. Her apartment is littered with books. Piles of books on top of all the tables… Mounds of books on shelves beneath the tables… Slightly smaller stacks of books neatly corralled on the floor near the tables. Books are everywhere and I delight in reading the titles.
The range of topics is enormous–from children’s classics to historical tomes and philosophical treatises–and the collection contains everything from autographed editions to paperback reference books. She has always dreamed of having a personal library and at the rate she is going she will amass a magnificent one in the very near future.
I enjoy books, but not quite like Elizabeth. For her, they can become a portal into a world full of wonder and mystery. On other occasions, she is able to get acquainted with a brilliant author while she absorbs and digests the carefully crafted thoughts laid out on the pages. I enjoy her passionate pursuit of the written word as she collects more of the bound treasures, knowing she will most likely never read them all. But that’s okay because part of the joy in collecting is the ever-present hope of discovering an unexpected new favorite.
An ardent bibliophile, she is continually on the lookout for additions to her burgeoning library. But in the meanwhile, her pocket-sized leather bible with its cover worn smooth from use remains the ultimate treasure in her ever expanding collection.