Everyone knows that books are for reading, and this is as it should be. We love books. Our house should testify to this. Take it from the African American Comcast repair man who came to fix our cable, he glances around the living room as he kneels to inspect the non-blinking box and being a bit awestruck (I chose to interpret it this way at least) tells me in his distinctly punctuated style, "Man, you must really like books." Indeed, we do.
But when, at the last count, there were over 200 library books in addition to six five-shelf bookcases brimming over with books that we own, it would be silly to limit ourselves to merely treating them as eye candy. So, in the name of utility, books have become a raiser for my laptop when it sits on my desk, little blue Shakespeare volumes are a decoration/backdrop for my icon and nativity scene, an old, hefty stack of Defensiones Divi Thomae becomes an extra shelf in the closet, the five stacks against the wall of our bedroom hide the ugly floor molding (and the outlet) and provide visual interest below the window sill, and tightly packed together on the bottom shelf they become almost indestructible child proofing against inquisitive children.
Ah, one can never have enough books; except when one is moving, then, even five books is five books too many. Also, we have too many library books. Even though we've had some of them for 5 semesters now, I still can't change the impression that they are transient books that don't really deserve a spot of the bookshelf. Thus, they sit in piles three feet high (or as high as we can safely stack them) in our bedroom. They were in the living room but that was rather unsightly and a bit dangerous once our son began kneeling and pulling at things. Now I am trusting in the osmosis while we sleep and worldfamous articles by my husband to justify the pain of housing all these books.