These books. These many books, accumulated over decades. Inherited, bought, borrowed, stolen – some of them even read. Sprawling mountains of them, taking over the house, threatening life and limb at every turn. Shelves? Brimful. Floors? Once, you could see carpet. I swear they’re breeding.
They’re testament to a fundamental lack of discipline, a fatal character flaw. Others preach ‘one in, one out’; I prefer ‘many in, keep them all’.
It’s gone too far. Something has to give. The words appear in my head unbidden, followed swiftly by a silent gasp of horror.
Book cull.
No. Not that. Anything but that. Not my friends.
How many friends can you have? More to the point, how many of them will you ever read?
Point taken.
I gird my mental loins and set to it.
Wodehouse, Delafield, Adams, Austen, Greene, Waugh, Gardam, Fforde, Rendell, James (various), Dibdin, Nobbs, Bennett, Christie, Davies, Atwood, Simenon, Leon, Mantel, Thurber, Sayers, Pratchett.
Nope. Can’t chuck those.
The score: kept – 236; discarded – nil.
Must try harder.
Music books, inherited from my father, straight from packing box to shelf, untouched since.
No can do, sorry. What if one day I need to refer to Donald Francis Tovey’s analysis of Beethoven’s 7th Symphony? WHAT THEN?
All of Jane Austen and E M Delafield, in numerous editions. Nope – they were Mum’s. They all stay – even the duplicates.
Bird books. Wisdens.
Please. Really.
It’s impossible. Because they’re not just books. They’re time machines, memory banks, joy factories – full of words and stories, yes, but love and friendship and hope as well. Each has its history, and each its place, and try as I might I can’t stop myself from adding to their number.
This is a job for someone else. But I won’t let anyone else near them.
You just try it.
A long time ago – you really won’t believe this – I managed to get rid of some cookery books belonging to my mother. (In my defence she never used them so why should i?) But the rest of the house has bookshelves on every available wall – and the shelves are triple stacked in most places. Now, what would you like to read?
I read a Pratchett book once; thought it was awful! Contrived, laboured, self-consciously oh-so-funny… I’d chuck ’em if I were you.