We switched the office with the bedroom today and I'm beat. We took a huge bookcase and put it downstairs in the 'new' office but first I emptied it out, mostly on my bedroom floor. Even though I've been up and down the stairs with armloads of books all day, there are still a massive amount, artfully arranged in my room. I look like a hoarder. And I recycled. I am giving books away, even though I love them. Many books. Because I won't read them again.
And then there are the books I must have. The shelves of poetry, of course. The outdoor books, trails and skiing and hiking. Ramdom beautiful fiction and nonfiction. Books I need. To reread. To reference.
Of Human Bondage- W. Somerset Maugham
The Red Pony-Steinbeck
The Bluest Eye-Toni Morrison
Black Tickets-Jayne Phillips
Art Objects-Jeanette Winterson
Cloister Walk-Kathleen Norris
Stones From the River-Olga Hegi
All of Arundhati Roy
Presumed Innocent-Scott Turow
Wind in the Willows-Kenneth Grahame
All of Raymond Chandler
There is a lot more. This is what I can see from my bed.
I have wealth. In books I have tremendous wealth. Right now my bed floats on a sea of books.
3 comments:
Books are wealth. You are completely correct about that.
Some clothes and a huge wooden crate filled with books was about all we, husband, baby and I, had to declare when we arrived in Canada 57 years ago.
I am rich with books too. I haven't read Of Human Bondage yet, but it's near the top of one of my many piles. I suppose I should move it to the very top?
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