And stopped. I've always been a sucker for books. Real books, the paper-and-ink kind, the kind you can hold in your hands, the kind with real covers and bindings. (Sure, I know, it's the content that really counts—you can't judge a book, drekcetera—but if you don't already understand the pure, sensory pleasure of opening a book and flipping the pages, you probably never will ... and your loss.) As a bibliophile, it's always been my dream to have a library—one room devoted entirely to books. If I had to envision that room, it would have a couple of large windows for natural light, but every other square meter of wall space would be taken up with bookshelves. There'd be one chair specifically for reading—a big old wing chair, preferably (although I'd probably retrofit a massage unit)—a couple of small tables to hold decanters of single-malt Scotch, and maybe two or three other (lesser) chairs in case I ever invited friends into my sanctum sanctorum .