My bookshelves are full of dust--and with good reason.When iIt comes to cleaning that part of my home,I suffer from the most serious case of avoidance .  The thing is this:when I do set out to clean and re-organize my books,which seldom happens,I place myself into a really bad situation.No sooner do I take a title from the shelf, blow off the dust,and wipe down the cover thanI find myself sitting on the floor with legs crossed and my back against the wall.Pretty soon books get piled up on my legs as I am reunited with old friends.   It is as if these boobs have voices,and each  wants to say its piece."Remember me?I was given to you when you went into the Navy , so that you would never lack for companionshlp,"one whispers.Another says,"I  was your first book of poems,given to you before you learned  to love poetry."And a third,"I was the book that made history so attrctive to you."   Perhaps thegreatest pleasuret of  re-organizing my books are the surprise--or better said,reunions--that occur. During my latest book cleaning adventure,I found one that had fallen behind the shelf:"Tales of Edgar Allan Poe."Not an unusual title,but the words written on the first page made it very special"With Love from Mom and Dad,Christma 1965." What's this? A book on the physics of lasers .It is filled with mathematical statements,and I had bought it at a library sale when I was 12,not long after the laser had been invented.I couldn't  understand a bit of it,bul  I did  learn what "laser"meant.   What I end up with when I empty my bookshelves is a cross-section of my personal history. It's like a road cut whre one sees all the layers of rock going back through time to the beginning of the simplest life forms.The books I've read--and kept--are not just old fiends.They' re my  _ . What could be said about the author?
He is too busy to tidy up his bookshelves. He considers his books treasured possessions. He has made a lot of notes in his book. He is a lover of sclence books.