"Books entered my house under cover of night"

I came clean yesterday about how opposed to my goals May was, but here's a guy who has it worse than me. Meet author Luc Sante, who writes in the Wall Street Journal about "The Book Collection that Devoured My Life":

After living in smallish apartments for decades I just spent seven years in a house with a full-size attic, and everything went to hell. Books entered my house under cover of night, from the four winds, smuggled in by woodland creatures, and then they never left. Books collected on every surface; I believe that somehow they managed to breed. Now that I have moved again -- into a house that's not necessarily smaller but that I am determined to keep from being choked with books like kudzu -- I have just weeded out 30 boxes worth: books I won't read and don't need, duplicates, pointless souvenirs.

He also manages to isolate and name my biggest fear about having a book collection this size, the fear of moving. I don't remember how many boxes of books I had the last time I moved, but I certainly will have more the next time around. But why does he have so many?

Books function as a kind of external hard drive for my mind -- my brain isn't big enough to do all the things it wants or needs to do without help... I realize that books are not the entire world, even if they sometimes seem to contain it. But I need the stupid things.

Well put, sir.