Tuesday, May 09, 2017

My beloved books become annoying

I moved into my new apartment 2 weeks ago. My books have, until tonight, remained unpacked --- too damn tedious to mess with until now. (As the movers in 2014 asked me: "Ma'am, have you considered investing in a Kindle?")

I spent 4 hours tonight simply unpacking all the books; getting only about half in place. (The rest are still sitting around on the floor --- but at least they're unpacked.)

I used to go around claiming I had "1000 books." Well, I'm anal, so while all the books were sitting around tonight, I counted them just so I'd know: 642.

After the physical hardship of moving stuff 2 weeks ago, I vowed to get rid of 100 books. Now that I know my total is only 642, I just vow to get rid of 64 of them. I don't need "Paris 1919," for instance. Or a bio of Hart Crane. Or the story of the Kennedy patriarch. I can go to the library if I'm so curious. (Of course, I'm keeping every single Joan Crawford, Plath, Sexton, Ted Hughes, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Tennessee Williams...)

I'm not a matriarch settled in a homestead, building a library. Rather, I'm a renter who has a bunch of shit that I have to move around every year or two or three. I need to thus plan accordingly.




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