Obscenely obsessed-book buff

I did not like One Hundred Years of Solitude. I partially liked The Fountainhead. I turned to Sidney Sheldon after reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez and I could only find faults in his novels. I have The Inheritance of Loss sitting unread at the back of my closet. A lifetime falls short for all the books I wish to read. I want Heart of Darkness even though I hated Lord Jim. I want Frankenstein. I need Prince. I need books. I can’t survive without them. They’ve become my best companions. I need books. With memberships in two libraries and friends willing to lend books, I still feel that I need more books. I want to surround myself with those musty pages until I suffocate. I want to encase myself between the printed leaves till I hate the very sight of books. I am high on books. I am addicted to them. They are the only legitimate way I can avoid the world. They are a gateway into another one. An escape from the hypocrisy called life. I need books. They keep me busy. They keep me from thinking. I read. I observe the figure of every word. Each word is different. Just like an individual. I need books. I hate libraries. I feel faint when I am in one. I need books.