Of course, that's just the right sort of thing to say to a mama like me.
I started to pull books off the shelf: The Moffats, Rascal, The Prince and the Pauper...
"I've been thinking I might like to read Sherlock Holmes," he said timidly.
"Of course you can. You may read any of the books on these shelves, you know," I replied.
He started to get excited.
This morning he kept finding more books he thought he might like: The Indian in the Cupboard, Hans Brinker, Peter Pan.
He added in some books he wanted to re-read: Robinson Crusoe, The Phantom Tollbooth, Seven-Day Magic.
He sorted the books, now numbering about twenty, into two piles: the thick books and the thinner books.
I started envisioning these books scattered all over the house. This worried me a little, but I didn't want to squash that enthusiasm. "You could pick four or five for now, then pick more when you finish them?"
This suggestion did not meet with his approval.
He did take out a couple of books that he thought he might not want to read right now after all: Mr. Popper's Penguins; Hey World, Here I Am!
Then he asked me for a basket like the one I have for my current reads. Of course, I found him one. He now has a leather stool with storage space for all those books.
He pulled the seat in front of the couch and demonstrated how he can sit on the couch, reach over and open the stool, pull out a book, close it, and use it for a foot rest as he relaxes and reads.
I heard him talking confidentially to his younger brother this evening as he went up to bed:
"Hey MM, I'm a book man."