Another year comes to a close, and I wonder if I'll ever reliably keep track of the books I've read. Despite all the apps devoted to doing so, I can't seem to make the time. I'm lucky if I remember to snap a photo of a cover as I go, so I'm often left guessing at the end of the year. While everyone else neatly tallies up their conquests, I'm standing at my bookshelf with my hands on my hips, struggling to recall what I read even two months ago.
But I wouldn't have it any other way. My favorite place to be is surrounded by a disorienting number of books, some finished, others half-started, and many more waiting patiently to be opened. Why keep a tidy list when I can survey the vast array of spines, speculate about their provenance, promise to be more organized next year, take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne, and all that?