I love my book collection to death and I’m very grateful that I’m even in a position to amass them, but it also makes me sad to know that the chance that I will actually get to share them with the people I care about is basically zero. Like, I know these fantastic people who love to read and I’m in another frickin’ continent sitting on about 300 books (they don’t fit on the shelves unless I double-stack now) that I value so much, and when I chat with my friends about books I just want to reach for the shelf and say “Here, this is my favourite book, will you read it?”
Sometimes I look at the shelves and think about how much time all those books represent- for the writing and the readings- it’s kind of staggering, you know?
And yet it’s a bit of an empty feeling. I’m lucky enough that my mother supported my love of hardcovers so- I remember we would send a bag of secondhand books back from the states when the USPS still had the M Bag, a freight bag for books only that took a few months to arrive but was cheaper.
Hardcover books that were meant to be read by more then two people. Made to withstand many more readings then this.
I love them and I know them and some of them have chunks falling out and I remember when I sat on that one and left a crease and who else will love them because please, let there be someone else who takes joy in them and let me know them.
I’m sitting here putting nice bookplates in my favourites and what is the fucking point of it all, who will ever read it? I still remember the times I have lent out books-
a friend I grew up with: I gave him Cirque Du Freak about 4 years ago so he could try the english version after liking the translation, Sh*t My Dad Says he took to the army when he was conscripted- they were impressed that he could read English, and recently, The Vampire’s Assistant.
A caregiver from Malaysia: the Artemis Fowl books- she enjoyed them up until the fourth, not liking the demons in it.
That’s basically it. I know I won’t (and can’t) bing them with me when I move on, and the thought of them sitting alone, unread, and gathering dust makes me sad.
(My books, the last year that everything fit on the shelves properly)