I don’t know why I bother traveling with books anymore. I lug around a small library that trebles the weight of my luggage and then end up somewhere filled with its own store of books. I’m curious about them, so I forget my own, wanting a chance to learn something about the new ones before possibly never seeing them again.
Even now, I’m in the friend’s house where I discovered Scott Mccloud, Calvin Trillin, and a wonderful book on treehouses. I brought along Rules of Play, 500 Years of Book Design, and the Selected Works of T.S. Spivet (a friend’s book). I should have chosen one book and used the extra space for more wine.
I guess bringing books is a kind of intellectual insurance. Unfortunately, the policy is usually never made good—particularly when curiousity and serendipity carry you into new things.
