In the middle of taking a short break from Deeley's fantastic Four Ages of Understanding (I want to own this book so I can underline and make comments in the margins and muse over it more, and I can't afford it right now as it's out-of-print), I've drifted over to the blog.
Books are a way of life with us. I grew up in a house full of books. If I wanted to read something new, it wasn't hard to find. I didn't even have to go the library (although I did, quite regularly). My own home is full of books, and it seems we're always ending up with more. From where I'm sitting, on the bed in the bedroom, I can count at least nine books on the nightstands and the bed. The bedspread is patterned with books. If I go into the living room, there are three tall bookcases, all pretty much full. There are stacks of books for a paper I'm working on. There are library books on the hallway bookcase, and a bag of library books in the living room. The bookcase in the spare room has a few philosophy books and my small collection of craft books on it.
Yep. We're addicted. I vividly remember my dad grounding me off of reading for an afternoon when I was a kid. It was horrible. I don't remember what I'd done, but I'm pretty sure I never did it again. Six hours without reading was a nightmare.
And on that note, back to the Latin philosophers.