It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in her early thirties in possession of four hundred books must have given up on ever finding a man. Or at least that is my mother’s perspective on the issue. Personally, I feel the four hundred books would show any potential mate that I am an intelligent and deserving female that should be snapped up quickly before another man sweeps me away forever. I also live under the delusion that there could be peace in the Middle East if only all the people there would read “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and “The Handmaid’s Tale”. Additionally, I believe fondue sets make useful wedding gifts, eating broccoli will inoculate you from all forms of cancer, and that southern republicans could finally be illuminated by simply watching the movies “A Civil Action” and “Twelve Angry Men” (okay, yes, I realize these are both originally literary works as well – a moving modern book and a still-relevant play – and since I am a self-proclaimed bibliophile, I should have listed them that way, but, do you seriously think most people are going to take the time to read them? Yeah, I didn’t think so either - although, both are totally worth it. Still, for once the movies actually hold up well.)
Hello, my name is Morgo and I am a book hoarder. I buy more books per year than I could conceivable read in five years. I get heart palpitations if I haven’t visited a bookstore or library in three days, and I’ve been known to smuggle small books onto airplanes in my underpants. In my lowest point I was found by a friend offering my last morsel of food money for a seemingly rare copy of a Hemingway in a back alley in Venice. Yes folks, I have a problem.