Morrissey, Oscar Wilde, Irishness and Books!

Today, within my reminiscent fangirlings, I stumbled upon something that made me very happy indeed. Doesn't it feel marvelous when two things you adore associate with each other, all on their own?
Look at my Morrissey getting all cozy with my Osky! I'm so proud of him! Getting in touch with his Irish roots! As Osky once said "If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised." Now I know my Morrissey hasn't been the best boy in his outright denying his Irishness, despite his ma and da, and I don't forgive him for that, I'd give him a right telling off if I got the chance. But he entertains me, and at least he can appreciate a lovely Irish writer like my Osky. I know I may sound like a crazy patriotic Irish lassie, but I guess I am.

Apart from crazy Irishness, forgetfulness is a trait I carry at present, as I forgot all about my intention to blog, like a silly little lady. But we sillies get distracted with books, chats, and horribly sweet white wine. Also, due to the late hour (1am), we sillies apparently happen to lose our ability to ramble. So when all else fails, books!

Earlier this evening, my mother and I were engaged in the age-long debate of books: to break the spine, or not to break the spine. Having gone through phases of both, I am partial to being very gentle with my books, and under no circumstances creasing any part of the head-wrecking flimsy covers. Especially if the book isn't mine! I understand the argument that a book is for enjoyment, and that people like to use their books, and dominate by way of marking their territory, so to speak. I however, am of a different view:

             If I were a book, would I want to be used and abused? Certainly not. I would want to be treasured, stroked, and caressed as if I was the most precious thing to that reader, who craves every word in my sea of sentences. I would like to be taken care of with the utmost respect and care, and would not stand for being ravished or visibly used to the point where everyone can see I've been violated, and that I will never be my lovely perfect self again. I would want to remain forever young and beautiful (as I do in reality), while being secretly devoured with relish by a reader hungry for my knowledge. 

Such is my reasoning of my peculiar reading style.
Such is why you may see me peeking into my favourite book.
Such is why I miss the normality of hardcovers.
Such is why I could empathise with the narrator's laboured, pained fingers in Wild Swans, as my fingers began to ache also from the awkward position I had to assume in order to preserve the youth of the lovely chubby book's spine.

Such suches mark my goodnight.