Eighteen months ago I lived in a bigger house. This too was full of books. This is something of a sore point. Actually, it's a great big, festering wound of a point. When we were moving house Tweed Lord insisted that some radical downsizing take place. To the tune of around 300 books. His argument was that hanging on to actual physical books was a form of unattractive arrogance, showing off which did me no credit, and actually made me seem horribly insecure. This was the point when I sat him down and pointed out that now would be a really convenient point to separate. We didn't. I kind of wish we had, at least that way I'd still have all my books.
When we moved into the new,smaller, house the first thing I did was unpack my books. Again several things should have set the alarm bells ringing here,but at the time I was a grand master of selective deafness. Firstly, there was the fact that I was making sure that my books were snug and cosy long before I built the marital bed. Secondly, I was doing all this stuff by myself. Not by choice, I'm the clumsiest person I know,me and a hammer is a recipe for a quick trip to A and E. No I was doing this myself because my erstwhile beloved was erstwhile. If by erstwhile you mean in the pub.
Four months ago today my marriage finally ground to an end. In the intervening months I'd gained about another 150 books but still not gotten around to building the bed. We were still sleeping, or rather not sleeping on a mattress on the floor. It strikes me as interesting that the start and end of a relationship are both characterised by spending nearly all your time in bed not being asleep. Insomnia and weeping are nowhere near as good for the complexion as round the clock fucking. Once again my books were about to be torn asunder. I have this ridiculous need to always be generous and magnanimous even when it ends up being to my detriment. Especially when it ends up being to my detriment. Eldest child, girly swot thing. Anyway, in the great book division of December 2011 I came off badly. Anything that TL had shown even the passing interest in went with him. I went from having a bookcase full of cookbooks to having a shelf full. This house is now a Will Self free zone. I am without Evelyn Waugh.
At this point I should probably point out that I'm an almighty paper pervert. I love books, I love the look of them, the smell of them, all that knowledge and imagination and brainy stuff is proper hot. Library's, and proper book shops are basically porn to me. I even met my first love in a library. I define myself by my love of books. Books comfort me, stimulate me, and help me to find my place in the world. For the longest time I believed that without my books I would lose my groundings, and, simply, float away. This makes what I've spent the last couple of hours doing all the more extraordinary.
In 36 days time, (gulp), I am moving to Whitby. I won't know anyone. I've somehow got the most amazing job in the most glorious hotel in the most beautiful part of the world. It's a live in post. This means that I need to reduce my stuff by about 80%. This includes books. I've decided that I'm allowed to take 40-50 books with me, and the rest need to be found new homes. I've started the process of adding them to Librarything, link to the right, have a look, see if you want owt. I'm totally OK with this. I'm even a little excited by the narrowing down process; I love the idea that all that remains will be the pink of perfection. Already I feel lighter, less encumbered. I think that I may, possibly, be ready to stop hiding behind other people's stories, and actually start living my own.
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| Mr Gosling appears via librarianheygirl.tumblr |
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