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U p F r o n t
By Karl Keating
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This Rock
Volume 6, Number 2
 February 1995 
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LAST night my wife walked by my study at home, looked in the door, and asked if I was sick. I was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
"No, just contemplating," I said. I do some of my best contemplating on the floor.
A few minutes before I had been browsing my shelves, thinking about how many of those books I hadn't read yet, and feeling a little guilty.
You know you haven't been doing enough reading when you pass your hand along a shelf and are surprised to see books you didn't know you had. "Where did this Newman come from? How long has this Knox been hiding here? I could swear I've never seen this Chesterton before."
I don't deserve to be called a bibliophile. I like books well enough, but I don't search the world for them the way some people seek elusive paintings or fine wines. Perhaps my outlook is too utilitarian (or my wallet too thin). Let others collect for the sake of collecting. I collect for the sake of the contents.
It was Cardinal James Gibbons, I think, who remarked that he had read only one hundred books in his life --but they were the world's best one hundred books, and he read them again and again. I don't know how many thousands of books I've read so far, but many of them have been forgettable and have been forgotten. Low standards, I suppose.
Still, I appreciate the Cardinal's remark--there is much wisdom in it--and I will contemplate it at my leisure the next time I lie on the floor.
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