And you, my book, whom I love.

I read books.
Well, not just read them. I devour them. I inhale them. I pick one up in my hands, and it is directly absorbed into my brain. I choose my books even more carefully than I choose my friends - I will not buy a book unless I am certain that it will get along and fit in with all my other books - and oh! I have ever so many other books. 3 whole bookcases full of books.
When we moved into our tiny, vintage house on 4th Street, everything seemed perfect. The house is full of weird, charming quirks - bright yellow countertops, original glass doorknobs, a pantry built into the wall, no room for the refrigerator (or no room for a table, depending on how you look at it), and we fit perfectly. Almost. Once we positioned the piano, couch, shoe rack, and my magnificent, hideous lucky gold chair, I realized that there was only room for 1 bookcase. One. Uno. I would have to choose only a few books out of the twelve-ish boxes that eagerly awaited in the garage.
How do you choose a favorite book? Is it based on your feelings when reading it? Or how strongly you relate to the characters in the story? Does it have to do with the sentiment attached - the memory of an era, the circumstances in your life surrounding your introduction to the book? I haven't any children, but it seems as impossible to me to choose a favorite book as it would be to choose a favorite child. I will draw a little curtain over the ordeal now, to protect the intimacy and agony of the books involved. Suffice it to say, my bookcase presents a curious selection - from The Color Purple to L.M.Montgomery's Emily books, and from C.S.Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia to several Ayn Rand novels.
I was recently introduced to The Time Travelers Wife. It was glued to my hands; I could not put it down until I had finished it two days later. Never do I remember being so intensely connected to the people in a book before. Every emotion they experienced became my emotion. I laughed when they laughed, I ached with their pain, I panicked when I saw the end and could do nothing to fix it - nothing to stop it - to keep the happiness living. I cried as if the man I love had lost his life. The story shot into my soul, came to life there. I have not seen the movie, nor do I think I will - I don't want to see another persons interpretation of it.
Every once in a while I meet a person who says they don't like to read. And I wonder what sorts of cardboard words they have experienced, to give them such a distaste for it.