Today I read my Bill Bryson book on that ever-so scenic drive to North Manchester, Indiana, and in one of those pauses in concentration when I gazed at the book cover, I realized, "Why did I buy this book?" Oh, I'm very intrigued by the book, don't confuse that. But these days, with my new minimalist attitude towards belongings, I hate holding onto books (other than favorites) after I've read them. I hate spending money, and it's not as if I gain adequate compensation from selling my finished books back to Half Price Books.

When my childhood was filled with trips to the library, long afternoons browsing books and magazines, and sitting in untouched nooks of the stacks with a riveting Roald Dahl work, I wondered today where that compulsion went.

When did the library becoming an after-thought?

Is it the crackling of the clear plastic book covers that causes distaste? The sour memories from caffeine-facilitated all-nighters in college? Fear of the Dewey Decimal System? This made me wonder, "How many of you sidestep Borders and your local discount bookstore for the convenient cost-efficiency of the library?"