Of all my possessions, the only ones I really, truly love are my books. They are like friends — no, they’re family. And I have been neglecting them.True, some books I handle regularly, mainly poetry collections and cookbooks. But most of them — novels, essay collections and memoirs, tomes about apples and oysters and architecture — are parked on my shelves, quietly keeping me company, warming my room with their array of colors and textures.And they’re gathering dust. Occasionally, a particularly enticing spine will catch a visitor’s eye, and they’ll ask to borrow it, and I will go over, pull it out, and sneeze.Join me. It is time for us to change this.