I rarely feel rich enough to buy anything but paperbacks, and only one or two at at time at that. Frequently, I hesitate to buy books at all although they're my chief form of entertainment. It's a weird little recursive loop that works on my inclination to deny myself what I really, truly want. I realize this is getting into total heaviosity but it's true: I often delay gratification of desires when I can't justify fulfilling them for reasons other than pure self-interest. There's a long history of coping mechanisms and self-induced sacrifice there, but I won't go into that. I've gotten better over the years. Also, being frugal is certainly a useful habit. I have my phases of utter abandonment where money flows like water through my hands, but as soon as I think I might be poor again I just clamp down. For the last eight months I've been worried about being poor again. Consequently, I haven't bought many books this year.

Last night, though, I had birthday money to squander. I loved it. No guilt, no justification, just pure indulgence. A new Sparkle Hayter hardcover? I'll take it. A History of Private Life, 1500-1800? Got to have it. I wandered around looking for all the books I'd promised myself I'd buy eventually. Of course, quite a few of those are no longer on the shelf, bookstores being what they are these days. Hesitate for more than two months and the darned things are remaindered. Fortunately, there was a whole stack of Jane Smiley paperbacks in the Fiction section, and quite a few covetable hardcovers in the World History section.