For the last several days I've had the sudden and general urge to buy a new book. I've stopped off at a few bookstores around the city, and while I've looked at hundreds and hundreds of books in that time, I have not found the one book that will satisfy my urge. It's not as if I don't have anything to read; there's a tower of perfectly good unread books next to my bed, not to mention the shelves of books in the living room I've been meaning to reread. I find myself, maddeningly, hungry for the next one, as yet unknown. I no longer try to analyze this hunger; I capitulated long ago to the book lust that's afflicted me most of my life. I know enough about the course of the disease to know I'll discover something soon.”
― Lewis Buzbee, The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop: A Memoir, a History
I have to say that I have suffered from book lust from the time I first discovered libraries at the age of seven, and second hand bookshops when I was eleven. Over time I have added book sales, garage sales, charity book fairs, digital archives and of course Amazon for my Kindle requirements.
While it is a lust, I believe it is a harmless and very enjoyable one. And of course it is not all about lust, love comes into the equation as well.
Many of my happiest times have been with a book in my hand. I clearly remember going into a bookshop in Alnwick on a snowy winters day and drinking coffee and reading my purchases in front of a blazing open fire - Bliss.