Like several of the books that get added to my ever-growing wishlist, Nick Hornby’s The Polysyllabic Spree came to me by way of Bybee, who raved about it on her blog back in January. I had it on my list since that time, but it wasn’t until late last month (yes, I am that behind on blog posts) that I finally got my hands on a copy and found out why it was that I added it to my list in the first place. Spree is a collection of monthly essays Hornby wrote for the Believer magazine between September 2003 and November 2004. Like many booklovers, I am a sucker for books about books but I can’t say I’ve come across one written with the same wit and self-deprecating humor as Hornby does. I learned, I laughed and I added even more books to my wishlist.

What did I learn? Well, among other things, that Wilkie Collins wrote a book called No Name. While reading the chapter in which Hornby is loving the book, I made a note to add it to my list. But then, in the following month, he was fooled by the early chapters of No Name, which became an excruciating reading experience.  I promptly crossed it off my list. I also learned about the bands The Polyphonic Spree and Marah – the latter now added to my list of fan pages on Facebook.

What made me laugh? A lot. One particularly memorable bit was his description of meeting St. Peter at the pearly gates, and Hornby’s hope that he will be judged on the books he has bought versus the books he actually read. I’m glad I am not alone in continually adding books to my personal library, knowing there are some I will never read and that I will never have time to read them all. Perhaps the next time my husband questions yet another book purchase, I can point this out to him.

Hornby also has me considering some writers whose works I’ve never attempted. First among them is Charles Dickens. Yes, I can hear the audible gasps now, but I’ve never read anything by the venerable author, although I see that changing in my near future. If Nick Hornby thinks he’s the greatest writer that ever lived, then I think I need to at least give the man and his verbosity a chance. Anton Chekhov, and actually Russian authors in general, have always intimidated me. I’ve elevated him and his brethren to an almost mythological status, and in so doing have told myself that I could never read their works and understand them, much less actually enjoy them. But at one point, Hornby is reading Chekhov’s letters, and even shares an excerpt. What I found is a refreshingly accessible writer, whose words and sentiments are not only comprehensible, but entertaining.

Lastly is Charles Lamb – although Hornby really only makes passing reference to him, it seems like practically everything I’ve read in the past few months mentions that man – last night I was reading one of my current books, Immoveable Feast, and there he was again. If that’s not a sign that I need to read something by Lamb, I don’t know what is.

So what books did I add to my wishlist? Quite a few: How to Breathe Underwater by Julie Orringer; George and Sam: Two Boys, One Family, and Autism by Charlotte Moore; So Many Books: Reading and Publishing in an Age of Abundance by Gabriel Zaid; This Is Serbia Calling: Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio and Belgrade’s Underground Resistance by Michael Collin; How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered the World: A Short History of Modern Delusions by Francis Wheen; and Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc. Like Bybee, Hornby is my latest literary crush, and so I didn’t even bother adding the next installment in his Believer essays series to my wishlist; Housekeeping vs. the Dirt is sitting on my nightstand, ready and waiting for me.