Lee Randall: A novel idea that loses the plot for the over-reader

Published on Tuesday 6 July 2010 17:35

IN THE same way that Lorelei Lee was always looking for new places to wear diamonds, this Lee is always looking for new places to stow books. If there was a 12-step programme for my addiction – oh what am I saying, I'd never join. Nothing on earth would compel me to stand before a room full of red-eyed obsessives and proclaim: "Hello. My name is Lee, and I'm a compulsive over-reader."

To paraphrase the Stax classic: if loving books is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

My passion for books is such that the mere sight of one elevates my heartbeat, starts me salivating, and makes my fingers itch with acquisitive urgency. This means that I amwarmly welcomed by shop owners, who know that a purchase is almost always guaranteed, but viewed far more suspiciously on public transport, airplanes, and in cafes and parks. If printed matter came with motion sensor alarms, I'd soon develop tintinitus from hearing: "You are standing too close! Step away from the book!"

Catching sight of a slim volume – or a chunky one, or one of medium size – I'm as unnerved as a sex addict thrown into a room populated by Playboy bunnies. "Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie," squeals the fanatic inside, while my hands involuntarily clutch and unclutch. I not only lust for the delights waiting among those luscious rows of type, but adore books as objects, too. Before settling down to actually read the thing, I stroke it, examining the cover, noting the colour of the boards and endpapers. I explore the typeface and stare at the author's photo. I read the blurb and the puffs. Since I used to write blurbs for a living, I'm alert to how inadvertently amusing they can be, and love unpicking their exaggerations and lies.

My shelving starts (but does not end) with a 20-foot long hallway covered floor to ceiling and over all the doorways, down one entire side and around, forming an L on the short wall. I'd be lying if I denied enjoying the gasps of envy it provokes in some of my friends

and every tradesman who's ever crossed the threshold feels compelled to state the obvious: "You sure love your books, don't you?"

Though that's often followed by: "Me, I've never read a book in my entire life." To which I can only reply: "Try it sometime, I heartily recommend it." I also love jewellery, yet find myself unable to love the latest new "invention" pitched at "booklovers on the go". It's called the Bookhanger Neck Chain, and, well, I don't need to draw you a diagram. It's a necklace! And it's a book hanger! And it costs 33 of your American dollars! (Or 21 of our pounds sterling.) And yes, your two-year old could whip one up in a heartbeat (for a fraction of the cost) and still have plenty of time left to paint a poo mural depicting the plot of War and Peace before you'd worked your way to the end of Goodnight, Moon.

In order to tempt me to part with my hard-earned cash, they'd have to start by making one with multiple chains. Not only am I lustful and acquisitive, I'm voracious, and rarely reading just one book at a time. Plus I like a dictionary to hand, to catch every nuance. That being the case, said necklace would also require a built-in neck brace, not unlike the massive structures Alexander Calder confected, to ensure that my head remained upright, rather than snapping on its stem, forcing me to stare at the ground in perpetuity. And a a padded chest protector, to keep all these books in progress from bruising my delicate anatomy as I trot around town running errands.

For the true book lover, then, we're talking an exoskeleton with pockets. Or perhaps a sturdy tote bag? I wonder what I could charge suckers for that?