Books That Come to Stay and Books That Only Pass Through
I hoard books. I’d have liked to use the term “collect”. “Collecting” sounds so much nicer than “hoarding”. “To collect” implies that the things you collect are chosen carefully, selectively, but the fact is many people simply collect and accumulate (things, or books) mindlessly, impulsively. So do I, with books. I “hoard” books mostly based on the thinking that I might have some use for them in the future. I always find reasons to keep them. I might want to read a particular book again and I only have to dig it out from the shelf, or from one of the boxes. And the books I edited and translated, of course I MUST keep them. They’re mementos, my “babies.” And what about other books? Those I bought at discounted prices, or on an impulse because the covers were so cute I could not resist, and those I bought for reasons I can’t even remember. They all have to stay. They will be of some use someday. So there they are. Hundreds of books, from various subjects. I’m a booklover, right? So I’m justified to have and keep them all. For years I’m content to leave them where they are. Just knowing that they are there makes me happy. And it has always felt so right.
Until recently, when it felt so wrong. One day, without any particular reason, I looked at those books and I thought, “What am I doing? What are these books doing here? Do I really want to keep them all?” Suddenly the sight of them was suffocating and I couldn’t bear it anymore. I had to sit down and asked myself, “Think hard, which of those books that you really really love and are worth keeping?” And it turned out that I didn’t have to think hard, because the answer came immediately. “Those that are worth keeping are the ones that have strong memories for me.” And I didn’t have to consult my list of books to know which ones they are. Because I knew already. I guess I have always known it all these years.
Books from my childhood, and some from my growing up years. Those are the books that come to stay. Each of them has its own specific memory tied to it. I know every yellowed page intimately, I can still recall the feelings they brought in me when I was reading them, I remember how I used to read them, lying down on the couch at home, in lazy quiet afternoons, or curling up in bed on a rainy day with a book in one hand and something to eat in the other, or lying down on the floor during hot afternoons with a book to while away the time. Yes, these I will keep, because they have planted their roots deeply in my life. They are also my first windows to the world.
Books that I translated… yes, they too,because I hand-picked them carefully.
Books that I worked on as an editor… now these, I must admit, are the books that only pass through. Not that they are less worthy. I gave them my best effort when I was working on them, I enjoyed reading them, I am happy that they passed through me, but that’s it. I have helped “give birth” to them, and I should release them, let them find their way, together with the rest. Next, please…
After all, I think that’s the real mission of a booklover. You infect people with love of reading, and you help books find their way in this big big wide world. If you keep them for yourself, letting them collect dust, not knowing when you will ever read them, or what you will really do with them, they become stagnant energy.
I feel lighter already.
I hoard books. I’d have liked to use the term “collect”. “Collecting” sounds so much nicer than “hoarding”. “To collect” implies that the things you collect are chosen carefully, selectively, but the fact is many people simply collect and accumulate (things, or books) mindlessly, impulsively. So do I, with books. I “hoard” books mostly based on the thinking that I might have some use for them in the future. I always find reasons to keep them. I might want to read a particular book again and I only have to dig it out from the shelf, or from one of the boxes. And the books I edited and translated, of course I MUST keep them. They’re mementos, my “babies.” And what about other books? Those I bought at discounted prices, or on an impulse because the covers were so cute I could not resist, and those I bought for reasons I can’t even remember. They all have to stay. They will be of some use someday. So there they are. Hundreds of books, from various subjects. I’m a booklover, right? So I’m justified to have and keep them all. For years I’m content to leave them where they are. Just knowing that they are there makes me happy. And it has always felt so right.
Until recently, when it felt so wrong. One day, without any particular reason, I looked at those books and I thought, “What am I doing? What are these books doing here? Do I really want to keep them all?” Suddenly the sight of them was suffocating and I couldn’t bear it anymore. I had to sit down and asked myself, “Think hard, which of those books that you really really love and are worth keeping?” And it turned out that I didn’t have to think hard, because the answer came immediately. “Those that are worth keeping are the ones that have strong memories for me.” And I didn’t have to consult my list of books to know which ones they are. Because I knew already. I guess I have always known it all these years.
Books from my childhood, and some from my growing up years. Those are the books that come to stay. Each of them has its own specific memory tied to it. I know every yellowed page intimately, I can still recall the feelings they brought in me when I was reading them, I remember how I used to read them, lying down on the couch at home, in lazy quiet afternoons, or curling up in bed on a rainy day with a book in one hand and something to eat in the other, or lying down on the floor during hot afternoons with a book to while away the time. Yes, these I will keep, because they have planted their roots deeply in my life. They are also my first windows to the world.
Books that I translated… yes, they too,because I hand-picked them carefully.
Books that I worked on as an editor… now these, I must admit, are the books that only pass through. Not that they are less worthy. I gave them my best effort when I was working on them, I enjoyed reading them, I am happy that they passed through me, but that’s it. I have helped “give birth” to them, and I should release them, let them find their way, together with the rest. Next, please…
After all, I think that’s the real mission of a booklover. You infect people with love of reading, and you help books find their way in this big big wide world. If you keep them for yourself, letting them collect dust, not knowing when you will ever read them, or what you will really do with them, they become stagnant energy.
I feel lighter already.
