Her eyes went to the shelves that stretched up to within a few inches of the ceiling. All four walls were covered; piles of books stood here and there, teetering, vulnerable, she judged, to the slightest footfall. 'But who doesn't have a lot of unread books? It's nice, though, just to know that they're there.'"
That observation comes from Isabel Dalhousie in Alexander McCall Smith's The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds (out very soon), and as someone who has a lot of unread books, I'd agree with her view of their presence as a source of pleasure, comfort and as yet undiscovered delight.
How do you view a large collection of books you haven't read? A waste, a reproach, and a cause of stress? A treasure trove? Or would such a thing not move you either way?