Having just read Bibliomaniac by Robin Ince, I have been thinking about how many different ways there are that booklovers show that love. There are of course many people who are passionate readers but actual books are not so important. Maybe these are the sensible ones, they must use libraries compulsively and are always willing to pass books onto others. That is not me although occasionally I wish it were. Reading is my favourite occupation but I also love books, and I do love owning them. I really like walls that are covered in bookshelves. It all gives me immense pleasure.
I have had mild flirtations with the business of collecting. I once was a member of the Folio Society until I decided it was too ridiculously expensive, I have scoured second hand bookshops for Observer books and I went through a Ladybird phase which became exhausting in surfing time online, so I stopped.
I have become a little better at being honest with myself in knowing that I will not read a book again, so I might as well pass it on. I have conversations with my husband about the need for bookshelves and where these might go and also about the chances of me re-reading. I do return to certain authors: people who have their own shelf, Penelope Lively, Susan Hill, Douglas Kennedy. They need not fear the next cull.
I try to steer clear of being an obsessive but I have no problem with my home being full of books.