I’ve purchased about fifteen new books in the past one week, all because there were seasonal sales going on at two major bookstores.

I’m still feeling squeamish about how I just hopped from shelf to shelf at the warehouse, gratifying my bibliographic carnality, justifying my purchases by saying to myself, “Can’t get these books any cheaper at any other time” and “I need this for my research”.

At some point, my friend who was with me said, "Hey, I have this one and that one. I can pass them to you if you want to read them". I guiltlessly replied, "Nah, I've gotta have my own copies". That was so wrong!

There now – on my four-tiered twelve-foot shelf – lie Sherlock Holmes, Oscar Wilde, Adibah Amin, Benedict XVI, Richard John Neuhaus, Bertrand Russell and others, all staring in utter disbelief at my flippant indulgence.

Is it mortal or venial? I could say I’m never going to do this again; but how dare I tell such a big fat lie.

I hate book sales. No, I love them. I just hate it that I love them. Sheesh. Maybe I should use the thickest book I bought for self-flagellation.

Still reeling. Aiyooo...