Apparently I have a problem:
This is what my living room looked like after hitting the county library book sale a week and a half ago. (Oh hey, and Katie’s on the couch, too. I just noticed that.)
Keep in mind that I had brought home just as many books after the city library book sale two weeks before that. (Whoo, and I had to be quick to nab ’em at the county library sale, because people there were RUTHLESS. When I arrived, there were four bookshelves full of children’s novels, and after twenty minutes in the picture book section, I returned to find only ONE shelf of novels left. Wow.)
Obviously, I’m a fan of the picture books. ‘Tis true. I’ve been collecting them since I was a teenager; I brought my more valuable ones to college, which lead to Brian and I becoming friends (we traded books a lot).
But it’s becoming a problem. When I first began to collect picture books, I chose them based on the quality of illustration alone. Now that I know something more about children’s literature (more than the average person ought to know, really), I focus on finding books that are out of print, or likely to be so. Therefore, my book sale splurges are done with the attitude of, say, rescuing Holocaust refugees (“If I don’t take them in, they’ll disappear forever!“). I despair whenever I see really good books that are only a year or two old showing up as library discards. Didn’t anybody want to read them? Or did the librarians not do a good enough job of promoting them? Oh, tragedy. And schadenfreude — because those books are now mine.
*rubs hands together with evil grin*