Bibliophagist or bibliophage. Call me either or both. The title has fit since my mother, concerned that she had an illiterate five-year-old on her hands, taught me to read before I went to school. Mama had instilled the love of words and story long before she embarked on teaching me to read. This new skill just meant I could read by myself. The etymology of the words is from the Greek for biblio (book) and phage (one who eats) ergo bookworm, though that doesn’t sound nearly as sophisticated. The words have been in use since 1881, though I would guess that bibliophages existed long before then.
As I grew up, I could read with one hand keeping my place in the book while the other hand held my fork. I could read with three sisters creating mayhem in the same room. I could stir a pot on the stove with my right hand, and flip the pages of my book with my left. Thankfully, reading has never made me carsick, and I have consumed many a book on a long journey. With an entrancing book in my hand, I can tune out whatever the rest of the world is doing.
When we moved to the country about five years ago, making sure there were spaces that invited reading became one of my first orders of business. This bibliophagist – bibliophage – bookworm found them inside and outside. Inside there is my mother-in-law’s rocker by the window, a napping couch and pillow, and the read-myself-to sleep bedding. Outside there is a commune-with-nature bench and the deck swing.
This bookworm is happy and will even admit to an additional description. Besides the bibliophagist – bibliophage – bookworm, there is also the bibliophile – one who loves to collect books. Judging by myself and the other bookworms I know, I am guessing the descriptions have quite a bit of overlap.