Of the collecting of many books there is no end — in my family, at least. At the library’s tri-annual book sale last month, I purchased the following for less than ten dollars:
• Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling, illustrated by I. W. Taber (hardcover);
• The Screwtape Letters (also includes “Screwtape Proposes a Toast”) by C. S. Lewis (paperback);
• Northanger Abbey and Other Works (Lady Susan, The Watsons, and Sanditon) by Jane Austen (paperback);
• The Poetical Works of John Keats compiled for ‘The World’s Classics’ (hardcover).
I have already read The Screwtape Letters, Northanger Abbey (and the other included works), and Eugene Onegin. I have read nowhere near all of Keats’s poetry, though I have read some. Buying a book of his poetry is proof that I collect books. I actually already had a beautiful volume of Keats’s poetry, but I got another because it was such a neat, attractive little copy.
I adapted the title from Ecclesiastes 12:12: “And further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”