The Book Collector

I collect books. Piles of 'em. Most, I'll never read--finger probably, but they're all too long, and I don't have the time. The titles on the spines make me feel erudite. Often, I'll look upon them, all in line, noting each at a glance. They validate my identity as an esteemed lettered elitist. Touch them, yes, they fill my bookshelf out nicely, no? I'm better than you because I have more books--probably more interesting ones, too. Edified? Good. Pictures? Alright. But, please, no flash.

From Up in Michigan, Ernest Hemingway

She was thinking about him hard and then Jim came out. His eyes were shining and his hair was a little rumpled. Liz looked down at her book. Jim came over back of her chair and stood there and she could feel him breathing and then he put his arms around her. Her breasts felt plump and firm and the nipples were erect under his hands. Liz was terribly frightened, no one had ever toucher her, but she thought, "He's come to me finally. He's really come."