For the past years, I've been reading books in my Kindle. It saves me space. I've been particularly drawn to printed books, however, and can't seem to get over them. Whenever I come across book stores, I am drawn to spend a few minutes to browse through the novels, short story collections, and works of non-fiction. Like any bibliophile, I smell the pages and read a few passages. It is hard to ignore this compulsion, and I almost always end up buying one or two. My threshold for a purchase has grown rather high as I've grown up, but I can't pass the chance to buy an Elena Ferrante, James Salter, or Mavis Gallant, among many, many authors I turn to when I want to daydream. How I will ever find time to read them, given my massive backlog of readings in oncology, remains a mystery to me, but I somehow squeeze non-academic reading in my life. These books end up on my bedside table, or, for this stack, on the dining table. My brother, whom I live with, often protests and chides my behavior, but he devours some of these books and forgives me anyway. A huge pile of backlog is something I am grateful for.