I am obsessed with used bookstores. I love them. Once, in April while I was in College City all by myself, I got supremely lonely. I walked a few blocks down and found an old bookshop that sold only used European history books. Not exactly my genre of choice, but I didn't care. I walked inside, inhaled the musty, old book smell, walked to the back and found a chair, sat down, pulled out my own book and read for two straight hours.
I covet books. I just love to have them surrounding me. I would live in a library if I could.
I usually only buy used books. And when I go to used bookstores, I buy the rattiest, most dog-eared copies of the books I can find. I love the books that are so beat up--imagining how many people have owned them before me, read the words and caressed the pages. People look at me like I'm crazy, but I love a good used book.
My beloved, well worn copy of Little Women with half its front cover ripped off (I didn't rip it, but it's almost 30 years old and after literally hundreds of times being read, it started to disentigrate) and its spine held together with packing tape. Once someone told me it was a shame to treat books that way. I disagree--it shows how much they're loved.