In The New York Times, Dick Cavett wrote a remarkable truth about books: “Loaning books is a fiction. You give them. Nobody returns the damn things.” Amen, Mr. Cavett.

I have been the book borrowers’ stooge so many times that I can’t even recall all the names of the books or borrowers.

There are, however, three long-gone books I haven’t forgotten. Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried and Raymond Carver’s Where I’m Calling From: Selected Stories were lent out in the 1990s. Steve Martin’s Cruel Shoes, was borrowed by a cousin in 1979.

I go blank trying to remember who borrowed the much-cherished The Things They Carried, the best Vietnam-themed fiction I’ve read, though I do remember blabbering about O’Brien’s masterpiece to a now faceless, former coworker (it could be any one of three people). I practically forced The Things They Carried on him. “Read it,” I shouted and frothed when he claimed to have many of his own books to read first. “Take it,” I said. “Just return it whenever.” Then, The Things They Carried was carried out of my life—for good.

What possesses me to force my books on others? Why can’t I just recommend a book? They can then buy their own copy. It’s a sickness—I have even loaned library books to others. Guess who pays the overdue book fines?

What of my copped copy of Where I’m Calling From: Selected Stories? Alas, unlike my missing O’Brien, I do know the Raymond Carver culprit. My then buddy Troy, a golf professional, took it from my home to his for a try. Two years later, Troy moved three hours away. And so did my Carver book. Even now, I picture him packing my book into a box filled with his books—Troy has hundreds, far more than me (he isn’t much of a book lender).

There should be a book-borrowing law stating “said borrower cannot relocate to a new zip code area without first returning said book to the rightful owner.”

Two years ago, I visited Troy, who, by then, lived only an hour away due to landing a job at another golf course. I acted interested in his books, fingering spine after spine, scrutinizing each shelf, though there was only one title I cared to find. And there it was: my book.

“Damn,” he said, from behind, as if seeing right through me, “I guess you can have your book back.” He did throw out some lame technicality about statute of limitations. He was joking, of course—or so he said—but there was an uncomfortable awkwardness between us.

So, what did I do?

I returned Where I’m Calling From to Troy’s shelf. By that time, it had been in Troy’s possession longer than in mine. The book seemed a natural fit there. Since then, Troy and my Raymond Carver book moved to Wisconsin. I never know where Troy will call from.

My missing Steve Martin book, Cruel Shoes, is a rather stupid collection—part of its charm—of stories and essays with titles like “The Diarrhea Gardens Of El Camino Real,” “Poodles…Great Eating,” “How To Fold Soup,” and “Dogs In My Nose.” It was the first hardback I ever purchased with my hard-earned mowing money. I was 14. I idolized Steve Martin (still do). I laughed out loud while reading it without even knowing why. It was a wild and crazy book, which my cousin Dean borrowed and promised to return. A couple years later, when Dean went to college, he took the unreturned book with him. I know. I helped him move. He didn’t recall Cruel Shoes being my book.

I still push books on others. I grew up watching my mother and grandmother trade books. I guess that’s how I got the bug. There is a another quote about books I like: “A book unshared is a book wasted.” There is great truth to this particular book quote, too.

I should probably come clean with you. I recently became one of those book borrowers I complain about. Last summer, a neighbor, Kim, offered up A Thousand Splendid Suns, by Khaled Hosseini. “No pressure,” Kim said. “Return it whenever.” We share the same sickness, perhaps.

An estimated 380 splendid suns have passed and I have yet to read Kim’s book. Sometimes, as I’m about to step outside, I see her next door pruning roses, washing her car, pulling weeds, walking the dog, raking leaves, shoveling snow, getting the mail, reading in the shade and I duck back inside undetected. I know she wonders about her missing book. I dread her knock at my door. Maybe I should move. NewsSip

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