Why I may start collecting books again

I have been a huge proponent of getting rid of “stuff” and simplifying my life, but after yesterday’s excursion to the main branch of the library, I may have been too hasty in purging my personal library. In theory, the library works perfectly for me– I can order books online and have them delivered to the branch of my choice. This suits me 98% of the time.
But yesterday, I trudged upstairs to the stacks, held my nose, and plunged into the sad excuse for a fiction section on the 3rd floor. Fresh off of Mssr Bloom’s recommended reading list, I scoured the shelves for something, anything that might delight me. No Flannery O’Connor. One sad slim volume of Hemingway that I ended up taking (I couldn’t believe there wasn’t more– I kept double checking how I was spelling ‘Hemingway’). No Blood Meridian. No Pickwick Papers, Bleak House, or Great Expectations. No Henry James. Badly translated Thomas Mann.
These are the basics, the rainy day books you want to have on hand in case a whim seizes you. And so my personal library-building begins anew.