When I mentioned to colleagues, friends, neighbors and acquaintances that I was divesting myself of 95% of my books the response was several degrees lower than lukewarm – though my family whooped and danced and cracked open the whisky we keep for those special rite of passage moments.
The most common comment was, “you can’t do that,” which is obviously false. I can and I am and I have.
Most people moralised, “you’ll regret it!” Which I took to mean they hope I shall at any rate. Serves me right.
One person informed me that my cheerful demeanour and serene detachment was nothing more than the first stage of the grieving process, “denial,” which would be followed by “blubbing,” “wailing,” “rending of shirt,” and “crying out for mummy,” in Kubler-Ross’s famous schedule of sadness. This person is a therapist so talks nonsense as a profession. Nevertheless I thought it may be fun to play therapy poker – I saw her Kubler-Ross, raised Prochaska and DiClemente’s transtheoretical model of change and self-diagnosed that I’d already reached stage 5, “termination” – in my case with extreme prejudice. One day I’m going to invent a Spinal Tap spoof of therapy models and have eleven stages, cos it’s one profounder, isn’t it!
Not one person, so far, has seen the sense in my plan or made any sensible suggestions how to select the saved remnant of my library. How to choose three hundred or so from the six thousand and odd that I had stashed in my sister’s attic.
I’m still floundering. The choice has me flummoxed. I keep changing my mind.
Right now I’m sat in my study / bedroom surrounded by little piles of books I dip into regularly, stuff that I suppose represents what I’m genuinely interested in, books that provide if not food for thought then some empty carbs of contemplation and the occasional sugar rush of reflection. Companionable volumes that have seen me through rainy days, insomniac nights, and innumerable evenings when I would probably have preferred some living, breathing company. The heart of my library.
Montaigne, Rabelais, Sterne, Steele, Hazlitt, de Quincy, Lamb, Pater, Butler, Huxley, Chesterton, Beerbohm, then the Americans Mencken, Early New Yorker writers, Liebling, Mitchell, Thurber, White . . . probably won’t mean much to most people but these are the books that I always have close.
Prose writers, mainly essayists, the majority had issues with money, addictive substances, and women (yes, they are all men, aren’t they . . . which is a bit sad.) Most expressed some pretty execrable opinions at some point in their lives – you wouldn’t go to any of them for a coherent political ideology – and almost all of them got into trouble with their friends for being too honest. Some of them spent time in prison, a couple in the mad house, but few of them went to university and even less got a degree (yes, I know the difference between less and fewer, but sometimes euphony trumps pedantry, they’d all agree.) None would have earned much as a consultant. Not many were what you’d call successful in the eyes of the world. They were irreverent, playful, antisytemic, cranky bastards, all of the Devils party – as Blake said of Milton – whether they knew it or not.
What does this choice of reading say about me, I wonder? unfortunately I got shut of all twelve volumes of the Routledge selected works of Karl Gustav Jung – one of the first things to go in fact – so I suppose I’ll never know what animates my animus or trips the switches of my archetypes. The psychology books I favour these days are by serious scientists not fascist mystics and they don’t really have much to say about the murky depths of my soul.
One thing all the writers I admire most have in common is they don’t believe books can do your thinking for you. Too much reading can be a substitute for thinking, a defence against the pain of making your own mind up. One of the best things about cutting back my own collection so drastically is that it has forced me to think hard about what is important, what I need to hang on to, and what it’s best to let go of. You can have too many books on the shelf – and isn’t that a telling metaphor for all that is undesirable, unnecessary, and unamusing! I’ve shifted a lot off the shelf and feel positively unencumbered, freer to think without props, prompts, and pre-packaged ideas. Not quite thinking beyond the box – anyone who claims that idiotic phrase has read too many books by creativity and innovation gurus – but thinking outside the book. So, while I don’t agree totally with Larkin that “books are shit” – he was a librarian in Hull, I can sympathise – I’m glad I’ve got some perspective at last. Who needs more than a few hundred books anyway, it’s just showing off, if you think about it.
By the way, does anybody know why the words on the spines of the books in the photo above go opposite ways? There must be a reason. Blog post anyone?
I empathise. Some years ago I moved abroad and couldn’t afford storage indefinitely, so I limited myself to two boxes of books. Into one went the essential (and expensive to replace) tools of my trade: dictionaries and other reference books. The other box was problematic.
I quickly disposed of books I had never read and had no intention of reading, along with those that I only kept on my shelf to look intelligent (although, in my defence, I had read them). It was interesting, then, to re-read the ‘life-changers’ and find that they were just books, sometimes rather disappointing ones, too. Most were disposed of.
In short, after much sifting and re-sifting I was left with a selection of the books that I knew I would go back to time and again. Not just read again one day – that’s what libraries are for – but the ones that I’ll pick up to read my favourite bit, or re-read on a winter’s evening. These are my comfort blanket.
I’d suggest, Phil, that you keep: a) books that are out of print or otherwise irreplaceable; b) books you know you cannot live without; and c) books that you need for work or play. Then how about putting all the remaining ones into storage for a year and see which ones you are itching to get out again at the end?
To your other question, I’ve been told that European spines read upwards and US spines downwards. This is certainly true of the French- and Spanish-language books on my shelf, and at a glance it looks like British books were once European and are now Americanised. Dammit.
Sorry, that turned into an essay. Enjoy your sifting.
Thanks Alison. Exhaustive!
There’s never a good way to decide between the sheep and the goats, and it depends on my mood. Dictionaries always are keepers – though I have a Kindle with built in OED, so it’s less important I suppose.
A for the question about the direction of text on spines, there have been several hypotheses . . . haven’t had a conclusive answer yet.
Don’t forget that classics/many out of copyright books are available to read for free online. Out of curiosity, do you read online or have a Kindle? I’m becoming increasingly interested in one as I’m moving house and also need to do a book purge.
Both. I have a Kindle and I also use a program called “Calibre” to convert downloaded online texts into .mobi format . . . well worth investigating.
Good luck with the purge. Get a Kindle, though be careful, it’s easy to go a bit mad . . .
So here’s the really interesting question (for me, anyway): do you feel the need to keep any paper books, now you have embraced the Kindle?
Yes, though I buy fewer I probably buy better paper books. Kindle is experimental, and I’m filling mine with all sorts of oddities. Thing it is hopeless at is footnotes
Oh, and don’t buy Brian Garner’s American Usage for Kindle. OUP robbery!
how about random so just go through and take the 20th book each time from the pile which should reduce the 6,000 to 300. You will then be left with some that you don’t want but this will give you the slack so that you can ditch them and replace them with new stuff that will keep you within the 300 limit?
double decimation! I like the random ruthlessness, and it saves me the effort of choice . . . I may take the advice . . . I feel like the Diceman.
Go for it – you are bound to still end up with a great collection of books and, if you are totally ruthless and don’t have any element of choice, you will have the pleasure of rediscovering what is in your new slimline collection. The Diceman beckons.