Why do I buy books but don't read them?
I love reading. And I say this very proudly, albeit ironically, from my desk under a shelf stacked with paperbacks I haven’t finished reading, or worse, haven’t read at all. From here, I can feel Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go looking down at me. Like George Eliot’s Adam Bede and Francine Rivers’ The Last Sin Eater, I still haven’t read it, though it’s been sitting there since God knows when.
Visiting bookstores is one of my delights, to the point that when I walk into one, I bring home a book or two with me. It didn’t help that they were right along my commute to and from work, and that their books possessed a natural charm that, beyond their smell and homelessness, always pulled me in.
Despite buying and calling them mine, I found that I don’t usually read their pages the moment I step into my room. I just let them sit on my desk, or the drawer beside it, or stack them on the shelf once I’ve taken a long look—for weeks, if not months. On most days, I’m fine with the recurring habit. But when I let my gaze linger on my shelf, guilt seeps between the spines of my unopened books, and I contemplate whether it’s fine at all.
Unlike those in BookTube who have read over a hundred books in July or those in Bookstagram who share their reading hopefuls for October, I take my time reading, I don’t set monthly goals, and I buy books out of sheer happiness, only finding them displayed—yet still unread—months after.
I call myself a reader, but with the pattern I fall into, I question whether I truly deserve the label. It’s frustrating to be at odds with what’s widely accepted, yet it’s in these moments that I learn that I must come to terms with myself. In the end, I realized I still love reading—and I’m still a reader—but I’ve just gotten to the point where I love books even more.
Books are patient, and so I must be patient with myself, too. Like seasons, the time for reading will follow
For the love of books
Back in college, I used to frequent the university library. Besides letting me feel studious inside its walls, it also surrounded me with books. I thought visiting was simply a way to embrace what little time remained of my college life after spending half of it online, but I realized I was also rekindling my affinity for literature. Wendelin Van Draanen’s Flipped was the first book that I picked up and devoured in one sitting, having already seen the movie adaptation. Since then, I would visit the library after classes and during my free time, borrowing enough titles to be counted among the library department’s top patrons during my senior year. The funny thing is, I only ever started one more book after Flipped—and I never even finished it.
Once, I saw J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit at the bottom of a bookshelf in the university library and immediately picked it up. I’ve only seen the movies, but I’ve held on to that well-kept copy as if I were holding something that belonged to me. In Street Haunting, Virginia Woolf wrote: “Secondhand books are wild books, homeless books.” But no matter their state or quality, I like to think that books are homesick, just as I am. I give them a home in my little sanctuary, and they let me visit as many homes as I can whenever I open their pages. In the end, it’s not even their ability to provide me a sense of escapism that draws me in—it’s simply that they are, in themselves, books. And I, apparently, am a book collector.
Sincerely, a book collector
I’m convinced that reading books and buying them are two separate hobbies. I buy books simply because their mere existence brings me joy. Once I own them, I get to see their beauty every waking day, admire their covers and spines, and stand amazed. I’m content to have beautiful pieces of literature on my shelf—that they’re what I can call mine anytime. And it’s more than just going for the aesthetics, or letting social media know I have them. They carry magic that has always enraptured me, photographed or not, and they keep me company even with their pages closed.
To quote Erin Bartels, “There is always time on paper.” While she was referring to the activity of writing in the book The Words Between Us, I like to believe it’s also true for reading. Books are alive and magical, like worlds I can visit when I’m ready or when I’m in the mood for it. But even when I’m not, as often happens, it doesn’t make me less of a reader. Books are patient, and so I must be patient with myself, too. Like seasons, the time for reading will follow. It will come. But for now, this will do.
Love is only shared between lovers, and if collecting is how I express my affection for books at the moment, no one else has a say in it. Readers can read as many books as they like, and I’ll admire and delight in my collection of books for now, from this side of the world too. You might wonder, “Where’s the fun in that?” I’d say that’s exactly where all the fun is.
