I own about 1,000 books, which I’ve stuffed onto four tall bookshelves in my home office. Like most writers, I have a weakness for buying them. I don’t steal them, as A.J. admitted he has done in a recent blog post, but sometimes when I go to the Strand or Barnes & Noble, I’ll be overcome with a compulsion to own something. A spine will beckon to me—say, Leon Edel’s biography of Henry James—and I’ll slide the book off the shelf, feel the slight tackiness of the dust jacket under my fingers and, if no one’s looking, thrust my nose into the pages and smell the ink and binding glue. Then, with a rush of excitement, I’ll walk quickly to the cashier and place my money on the counter. Sometimes a look of recognition will pass between the cashier and me, as if the young woman with close-cropped hair and nose ring behind the desk is thinking, “Oh yeah, that Henry James was a freak show, and you’re going to love this.” Finally I’ll get home and place it on my shelf…and never read it. But when a guest comes over and sees Edel’s tome in my office and says, “Oh, Edel! Don’t you love the way he described James writing The Turn of the Screw?” I might answer, “Oh, yeah. Fantastic job. What a writer!” A total lie.

This morning on NPR’s “The Takeaway,” Patrik Henry Bass, senior editor at Essence, talked about how people lie about reading certain books. You might happily admit you’ve never read The Celestine Prophecy, but what about To The Lighthouse, A Remembrance of Things Past or Being and Nothingness?  (I haven’t read any of these, but I own them.) Have you ever lied about reading a book? Why, and which ones?