Books are an absolute necessity. I always have at least two with me wherever I go, to say nothing of my digital collection, and whenever I can get my hands on a delicious new reading piece, I will finish it at a slackened pace, to Seymour it with all the esteem it deserves, granulating in its clearance, dedicating in every word with ardent affection. I have an extensive library that I could never do without, and there are at least four books decorating every surface in my house. A table is not properly set without a book to furnish it. Half of my great collection is non-fiction, mostly science and history books, ranging from the archaeological to the agricultural, and my fiction section is dedicated to the classics, mostly books published before the world forgot about exquisite prose. I have all the greats in hardcover, but I do not read those: hardcover is for smelling and touching only. For all my favorite authors, I have reading copies, which I might take with me anywhere, to read in cafés or to be used as a swatting tool for unwanted visitors, but books are always fashionable even as ornaments; everyone likes a reader, for a good collection of books betrays an intellectualism that is becoming at any time. Never succumb to the friable wills of those who reject the majesty of books: there is nothing so repelling as willful illiteracy.

I Hate Summer: My tribulations with seasonal depression