Bibliovore

The book probably was at the bottom of a pile of 14 library books, accidentally got picked up and dumped in the bibliovore labeled “Return Books Here.” […] [Y]ou meekly approach the library to find out what they would do with a book that wasn’t theirs. […] [I]f the marking is on the inside, the marking that has your name or the name of the department on it, it disappears.

Virtually everything requested was provided except for the odd file that had been misindexed, mislaid, or consumed by the silverfish and other bibliovores that inhabit dark and dusty shelves.

Ahem, my fellow books. […] I fully realize that since the untimely mortal passage of our dear librarian, all of us have been anxious about what the future might hold for us. Some of us might even have thought of following the Catalogue into the outer world, where only dangers and hardships await—bibliovores such as the gnoles and gnurrs and zipper-nut squirrels. […] Outside is probably miles and miles of forest just teeming with bibliovores.

“[…] Mikie has her pretty well hooked, convinced her that bibliovoria was the only way to kill the bugs, that her own body offered a more secure environment for her beloved manuscripts than the infested stacks at the Spence.[…]” Whether from the image of Mary Dilthey eating book with Michael Monihan, or from contemplating what manner of colonoscopy would now be necessary to enjoy the riches of the Spence, or from the smell of Rachel’s pie, a wave of nausea was beginning to build deep in my soul, so I paid our tab, bid farewell to the two bibliovores, and returned to Sculley’s flat.

“[…] You’d better feed me books or you will hear me roar! I’m a great green squishy mean bibliovore.” They fed him all the reference books they never used, but the monster still was hungry and escaped. He broke into an empty elementary school where he learned that spelling books cause belly aches.

The Librarian's a bibliovore. She eats the written word, absorbing and storing them within her, then accessing them at will. […] Much of what she makes goes into acquiring rare books, which she devours so she's the sole repository of their information, making it that much more valuable.

I made to go, telling her how busy I had been, how meticulously I had assessed our collection for signs of damp or the predations of bibliovores, how particularly pleased I was to have spotted some small indications of silverfish in the old chest where we kept scraps of parchment.

Leisure asked a few Vancouver Sun writers and editors — arguably the city’s most voracious group of bibliovores — about their favorite browsing spots.

So moved was I by the infectious liberating effect of this work (and not even Miller’s best I was to learn!) that I immediately purchased more of Miller’s books (paperbacks of course) and scarfed them down with equal relish. Man, the bibliovore.

It will come as no surprise that I grew up loving everything about “our” ocean. It wasn’t until a few years later that I could handle Moby Dick; but Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe, and particularly Richard Henry Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast were the favorite literary fare of this bibliovore in knee pants.