Unmaking my Home

Christopher Barzak muses on collecting books on his blog. I say collecting but I winder if a slightly more correct term accreting. Books have, like I suspect most people, accreted around me from buying and reviewing. I have piles of books falling nearly falling over, save for the wardrobe sealed in on two sides.

He asks whether its a form of neurosis, some compulsive need to obtain reading matter to think about, ruminate on or even desire to shout or yell at in some sort of passion. I’ve filled my parents loft, most of my own and am currently working on the flat (save only for needing room for the unguided furry missile of a cat and my wife).

Okay. I’m calling time.

I’ve got a fair few books that I’d like to come back to, some I haven’t even read that have intrigued me for a while. Yet in the midst are some that I’ll never read – including once favoured authors – so perhaps its time to take boxes to Oxfam. There are books that I once wanted to read but I doubt I ever will.

I may find the flat feeling strange, perhaps less like home, but I know that I’ll like those books that are left. I’m sure that I’ll find some gems in the boxes whilst I go through them and rediscover some lost loves. I hope I will. I hope I’ll find some new loves. Out of this I’m sure I’ll start again and the books will multiply in a way that defies nature and I’ll make a new home.

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