There's always room for one more book

By Minter Krotzer

We knew it was time to leave New York City when our book collections had outgrown our apartment.

My husband and I struggled to maintain a space that didn't overflow with books, but there was no indication we could break the book-buying habit. We still went to the Strand almost every week (my husband favored the dollar-books section) and we knew all the used bookstores in Brooklyn and lower Manhattan.

Our place reminded me of the fairy tale I read as a child - the story of a pot of porridge overflowing and flooding a town. Even though we were drowning in books, not oatmeal, there seemed to be the same sense of being taken over.

We stacked books in two layers on bookshelves, in Pisa-like piles on the floor. Books to be read immediately weighed down our bedside tables, and interviews with writers sat on our desks with craft books. Those not-so-urgent reads were stored in boxes and closets (my children's books and never-opened self-help books). Even though we had two apartments between us, we still didn't have enough room for our habit.

I heard of relationships almost ending over book hoarding and I didn't want that to be us. There were stories of wives demanding a book be given away before one is bought. I couldn't imagine such an imposition on our lives - it would cause too much anguish, like King Solomon having to decide which woman should get the baby.

When I was first dating Hal, I went out with a group of friends to have wine and dessert at a café in Brooklyn.

"I've heard you have a new boyfriend," one of them said.

"I do," I proudly answered, "a poet."

Before too long, she had a realization: "Is he the poet named Hal with all those books? My friend went out with him! She said he stores books in his oven and refrigerator."

Having never been to Hal's apartment, I didn't know what to say, but it made me a little worried.

Soon after that, I did make the trek out to Queens. We went to the botanical gardens and a Greek restaurant for swordfish shish kebabs.

"Do you want to see my apartment?" he asked after dinner.

When he opened the door to his place, I could see nothing but books - stacks of them as high as me, with a little path weaving its way through. It scared me seeing this scale of a book collection. Did this mean he was crazy? I didn't have the nerve to check in the refrigerator or oven, but I saw an entire pantry taken over.

We spent the night in his book-laden cell, a futon laid out like a raft on a sea of books. Usually, being surrounded by books comforted me, but this amount was worrisome.

I'd later calm my fears by thinking there was enough normal about him to not be concerned about the number of books he owned. And, besides, didn't I love books, too?

Even after we were married, Hal kept the studio. I'd think about it, sitting there, unused except for housing books. It seemed so extravagant to have an apartment used solely for book storage in New York City - but it's what we had to do until we figured out a solution.

We have now found a home for all of our books, having moved to Philadelphia seven years ago. Practically every room of our house is lined with bookshelves that extend all the way to the ceiling, from the front of the house to the back. Most everyone is in awe of them. A trick-or-treater last year looked more surprised by the number of books we had than any scary costume surrounding him. "That's a lot of books," he said, peering out of his Spider-Man mask. "You sure must like to read."

Friends have suggested that I make life simpler by buying a Kindle. But how could I justify having one with all of these books in my possession? It would seem like a kind of betrayal.

When we sold the apartment in Queens a few years ago, the movers told me the moving van weighed 5,000 pounds when it left New York. Five thousand pounds of books. The basement is now filled with books, too. Who knows how many pounds of books we have altogether?

With the arrival of Hal's collection, it feels as if our lives have now more fully joined - a bibliophilic union. Lurking over us, though, is the possibility of being taken over again. We still keep buying books - pursuing the thrill of the hunt. We can't help ourselves.