“One’s bookshelf is a window into one’s soul. And one’s housekeeping skills.” – Me
This is our bookshelf. It is one of the few things in our house that I made myself. There’s this, there’s the wooden gavel that I made in wood shop (the only time I got lathed in high school, but certainly not the only time I’ve made that joke), and there’s the mitten dryer, which consists of a piece of scrap wood with holes drilled into it and bent coat hangers poked in the holes to prop up soggy mittens and gloves. I know; the mitten dryer is the coolest, but I still feel the bookshelf is my crowning, sagging achievement.
There are books here that we’ve dragged with us from university in New Brunswick to Toronto to Halifax to Montreal, through several apartments and finally our home here in Stanstead. We keep telling ourselves we must undertake a purge someday — a literary cull. But we never do. We just can’t bring ourselves to cast them off, even though I am never likely to re-read Restoration and 18th Century Comedy or ever get around to reading Vineland by Thomas Pynchon if I haven’t done so by now. Consequently, the books have begun to spill over the side and in piles on the floor and upon side tables and on top of bed stands. If these were newspapers, we’d be hoarders. But they’re books, so we get to call ourselves “collectors.”
All I can say is: thank god for libraries.
So there it is, my life in a nutshell: disorganized, cluttered, eclectic, somewhat fraudulent, hampered by sentiment, dusty, saggy and unkempt. But I take comfort in it.
I showed you mine, now you show me yours.
Related post: My book store fantasy