Quite a few years ago I read an obituary of the American author, intellectual, and critic, Susan Sontag, who, after a multi-decade battle against cancer, died from leukaemia on 28 December 2004, at the age of seventy-one. Although sad to hear of the great suffering endured by this creative writer, I did breathe a little sigh of relief and recognition when I discovered that, at the time of her death, Sontag reputedly kept some 15,000 books in her Manhattan apartment. Although I do not have a New York apartment, I do, nonetheless, possess a ridiculously large number of professional books, and I thought to myself, just as the chronic dipsomaniac must do upon sitting down at that first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, “Hooray, I am not alone.”