I have a lot of books. I’ve accumulated hundreds since I was born, and very few have ever been disposed of. As I was sorting through my collection today, I came across nine books in Nick Arnold’s Horrible Science series, two Pokémon annuals, a bunch of YA novels by Morris Gleitzman and the 1999 edition of the Guinness Book of Football.
I’m moving in a few months. Since the new year started, my focus has been on getting rid of the clutter - something that I’m not always very good at, and something that I haven’t done in at least three years (and probably closer to five). A few days from now, about a hundred of my books will be donated to charity.
While this doesn’t touch on how many books I actually own - in addition to this shelf, there are about eighty behind me, including most of my academic textbooks (that I can’t bear to part with just yet), and a few others dotted around here and there - it’s enough of a dent to have an effect. There’s a weird feeling that I’m giving up part of my childhood, even though I’m keeping the most treasured texts (you will pry Roald Dahl’s works from my cold, dead hands). It’s freeing, and I already feel like I can breathe a little clearer, but there’s a tint of sadness to it all. To make room for the next step in my life, I need to throw out some of the clutter.
My bookshelf is now organised (roughly) not by title, or author, or genre, but by preference - the most valued books are at the top, slowly descending as you make your way down. I like this order. It keeps my favourites available to me. It means that when I start to ship everything over to another country, I know what to put in the first box.