Forgive me. I am a very weak man.

Early this year, seeing my to-read list overflowing from two shelves and taking root on a third, I imposed a book-buying embargo on myself. I vowed to not buy a book, not a single one, for all of 2007. I would instead read from what I had already accumulated, and with any luck make a small dent in that considerable library.

I was successful. For six months, anyway.

A few days ago I stopped in at the newly-revived Brent Books. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, just browsing. I was still abstaining, I told myself. But I might as well have been a recovering alcoholic "just browsing" in a liquor store. Or an aspiring celibate monk strolling along Daytona Beach during Spring Break, just for the exercise. Like those two theoretical individuals in overwhelmingly adverse conditions, I bravely stared down temptation for a few critical moments. And then I caved.

It was an intriguing little volume called Voices For Peace a UK collection of essays espousing peace in the aftermath of 9/11. The book was published in early 2002, an momentous interlude in time, after the invasion of Afghanistan but a year before the invasion of Iraq. It seemed like an Important Book, or at least a fascinating time capsule. And it was on the sale table, for only five bucks. I told myself the book was probably out of print and might be hard to find if I passed on it. So I bought it. No big deal, I thought. It's just one book.

Heh.

Then yesterday, in attempt to escape the blistering heat while still getting out of the house, we decided to visit our local used book store. Julie has resolved to read the entire Harry Potter series before the new one comes out next month, so she was specifically looking for H.P. #2. (She just picked up #3 and #4 at a garage sale, and not having #2 would put her in limbo for a while.) In other words, I could delude myself and claim I was just tagging along. So we arrived. I scanned the crammed shelves and book-strewn floors, casually at first, then more seriously, then very intently. Suffice it to say that, in very short order, three volumes leapt off the shelves and sunk their teeth in my backside or, more accurately, my wallet.

That's Amsterdam by Ian McEwan, Echo House by Ward Just, and Pounding Nails In the Floor With My Forehead by Eric Bogosian. It's recently occurred to me that, William Trevor and Aleksandar Hemon notwithstanding, McEwan and Just are my two favorite living authors. (In terms of all authors, living and dead, Algren and Hamsun still top my pantheon.) So the opportunity to pick up two of the strongest efforts from McEwan and Just, at a bargain price no less, was too much to resist. Bogosian was more of a quirky choice. I've been enamored with his work ever since seeing his film adaptation of Talk Radio, a truly riveting flick which hardly seems to get any mention these days. A cheap copy of a book version of one of his one-man plays was sheer indulgence on my part but, since I was already buying McEwan and Just, and had already established the self-justification for doing so, adding Bogosian to my purchase was accomplished with a minimum of conscience.

Then I came home, and put my three acquisitions on the shelf. And now the shelf just below is peering upward, warily, wondering when the invasion will finally occur.

Okay, I'm now vowing, no more book purchases for the rest of 2007.

Heh.