I’m going to blame Neil Gaiman.

A few weeks ago, Shelfari posted pictures of Gaiman’s home library, and I simply had to have it. I have never been more envious of anyone of anything ever. Ever. However, not knowing the guy, I can say with some assuredness that he’s not going to bequeath his Lexical Heaven to me ‘cuz I’m such a swell person. So, I invented a fantasy in which it was totally possible for me to have his library and read it too: a Zombie Apocalypse. There’s me, see, a lonely survivor of the Awakening making my way cross country after Austin is mostly decimated (in all actuality, Austin would probably be one of the few cities in the the US to survive a zombie attack; everyone here knows the best ways to defend against them and it’s Texas, so guns and ammo are readily available at any convenience store (though I see myself more as a samurai sword-and-shillelagh kind of survivor)) to Gaiman’s Minnesota abode. There, I meet my family and a handful of other like-minded (i.e., “well-read”) survivors, and we make our way to Gaiman’s basement. He’s not there, nor is his family. I’m not sure where they are in my fantasy. I know they’re not dead because I’m certain I don’t want to live in a post-apocalyptic Gaiman-less world. I mean, that’s just too bleak. Maybe they’re waiting out the Awakening on an island somewhere. It doesn’t matter. They’re not there, and JOY!! the library is also a panic room. So, we lock ourselves in and spend our days reading and telling stories al la The Decameron. The library is mine. The end.

I know what you’re thinking: On what desert island with no hope of rescue will that be happening? Well, of course, it’s a fantasy, but I still couldn’t stop looking at the pictures of what a real home library could be if one happened to be as wealthy, talented and literate as Neil Gaiman. Being none of those, there was really only one option for me: I had to buy every book in his library for myself. Finances be damned!

And don’t think I won’t do it!

To be continued…

Xposted at CPB

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