A Home for My Tomes

I am weighed down by a guilt only other bibliophiles could understand. 

I have always kept a mental catalog of every book I possess. I always remember the title and maybe half of the time I remember the author if was a particularly good book or a “classic” or the author is famous. I am almost always able to recall when and where I acquired my books. Whether it was a gift or purchased by myself. New from a book store, used from a rummage sale, free from a library that was just going to throw it out (one of the perks of being a library assistant in college). I came by most of them honestly, some of them less so. 

Yes, I confess. I have stolen a few books (no more than a dozen, I swear) in my time. Mostly from my sister (sorry K) but once or twice I simply “forgot” to return a novel or two to an English teacher along the way. Well, when you have 100+ copies of The Great Gatsby, are you really going to notice one missing? But I digress. It is not these pilfered books that cause me woe. 

I used to know exactly where each one of my books was located. Pride and Prejudice? On top of the dresser between The Collected Works of Jane Austen and Wives and Daughters. Demons and Angels by Dan Brown? Second shelf of the white bookcase, sitting atop Gone with the Wind and others because I never have enough room. My stolen copies of Nora Roberts? In a box under my bedside table. That free copy of Case for Christ foisted upon me by an overzealous evangelical? On a shelf in the back of my closet because I couldn’t bear to throw a book away. *

How I sorted my books might not make sense to anyone but me, but it worked. I knew my system. I knew my shelves. Every time I got a new book I took great care in making a space for it. I loved the days when I could set aside hours to rearrange my shelves. Every book would come down. Stacks would be organized on the floor. I’d inevitably end up spending more time rereading my favorite parts than actually working. But each book would get held and considered; thus forever imprinting itself in my memory. 

Since moving many things have changed. I have new bookshelves and I have to share them. I always loved arranging my books. But this time was different. In the chaos of moving in, organizing them all so precisely seemed trivial. And now I had to consider where Dustin’s books would fit in. As a result I can no longer tell you exactly where each book is. Or even exactly which books I have. 

Twice now I have purchased a book only to find when I bring it home I already have a copy. The shame! I don’t even know my bookshelves anymore! This is almost as distressing as the time my older tomes got worms. (real thing. still difficult to talk about.) Sometime this summer I will have to take a day to go through my our books. One by one. Consider each. Recommit it to memory. Then give it a proper home. And take pictures this time so it won’t be as bad when we move again. I’ll also have to get new shelves because these are not up to the task of holding all my books. It’s a little difficult to tell from the photos, but these shelves are seriously bowed in the middle. 

*Side story: I usually donate the books that I no longer desire to possess. I have only thrown away one book in my life. Boy Meets Girl: Say Hello to Courtship. Given to me by a pastor I fundamentally disagreed with on multiple levels. I said thank you and took it home. Five pages in I threw is down in disgust. I’m a firm believer in the whole “to each their own” philosophy. But that book pissed me off. So I threw it in the trash. Looking back, I should have just given it away. I was young.