My relationship to books has always been carnal. I lost my virginity to The Catcher in the Rye : that was the first authentic love affair.
I’ve betrayed books, dropping them for no reason (Sorry, Last Temptation of Christ. I guess I should have left a note), or falling for their more sensual and approachable younger sisters (I dumped Ulysses for Dubliners over the course of one messy weekend).
I’ve been married many times. Some are bad marriages, dysfunctional and co-dependent relationships with books I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with, but can’t seem escape, Atlas Shrugged. But there are good marriages too, with no possibility of divorce. I share with these books a history of affection that only my death will ever untangle. We may not be lovers anymore, but a rich, knowing friendship as replaced and indeed transcended the heat of our first encounters. The Sun Also Rises is a book like this; as are The Great Gatsby and 1984.