Book Value

One of my favorite rooms in Beauport is the book tower. I often tell my tours that is the room I covet most. And yet… it is heartbreaking that all those books sit there and collect dust. No one ever opens them and reads the secrets inside or is entertained by the stories. Sure, for six months people look around for three minute intervals and admire the bindings – if they aren’t diverted by the wooden curtains or the question of how to get to the upper level. The other six months, they sit in the cold and the dark. Forgotten.

While it rained and snowed this weekend I finished my purging project from a few weeks ago by tackling my neglected book collection. I own a lot of books. A lot. Five bookcases that were overflowing. I couldn’t even fit the books on the shelves. I stacked them up in piles on top, in front of, and scattered all over my room(s). Do I read all these books? No. Will I read them all? No. 

Okay. I confess. I judge people by what is on their bookshelves. Yes. I do. I go to your house and I will casually, maybe covertly, observe what you have purchased and display on your shelves. Maybe you haven’t read them, but I figure if you own the book it is a testament to what interests you. If you don’t have books on display… well… that speaks to me. It’s silly. Especially as more and more people I know are going digital. And I still have a fair number of friends who use that old fashioned resource, the library. Not to mention judging any person by an object alone is just wrong.

And yet, I cram my shelves with books that I read, that I might like to read, and that I think I should have as a representation of my literary knowledge. Silly. Pretentious. Dishonest. And… messy. Really. I don’t like Madame Bovary. I hated that book. She was an idiot. Same with Anna Karenina. I detest Tolstoy. Sanctimonious prig. I like Barbara Vine, but I know how her mysteries turn out… so I’m not going to read them again. And all those history books I bought when the Higgins gift shop was emptying its inventory for renovations… yeah, I haven’t read them in 12 years. Not very likely going to in the next dozen either. So why hold onto them? Why keep clutching objects that take up space and collect dust?

But… there is something comforting about books. Maybe it is the eternal hope that I’ve held since I was 12 about being a writer. The more I surround myself with bound printed volumes, the more likely I will be author to one. My dad likes books. My grandmother likes books. It’s a practice and appreciation I got from them… and feel as if I liken myself to them in the pursuit of knowledge. There is an affection for books. As someone who writes, I appreciate the heart and soul that goes into writing them… even if I don’t particularly care for them. But is it respect or disrespect to that work to just let it sit on my shelf neglected?

Well, needless to say, a lot of the books have left my shelves. I have three or four bags of books ready to leave the apartment. Either to another eager reader – or to the book donation bin I so happily discovered at the school at the end of my street. I really… don’t need to have that many books. I certainly don’t need the disorganization. I'm not a museum like Beauport.  So I don’t need to hold onto stuff that has no value to me that someone may or may not glance upon for a minute or two. And those books… well, they deserve to have a chance at a more attentive, appreciative audience. Maybe there is someone out there who will feel sorry for Emma Bovary. God knows why. But… if there is, they can have her.