One of the benefits of moving a lot is that it forces you to winnow through your possessions and to think hard about what you absolutely must keep and what you can toss. When I moved to Cairo for two years, I fit my life into a rucksack. When I moved from London to New York – fleeing somewhat unceremoniously after the world’s ugliest breakup – I threw all of my things into two bags and ran like a bat out of hell. This is another benefit of packing light – it keeps you nimble when you have to split.
This time around, the move was cumbersome. Unfettered by excess baggage restrictions and weight limits, I was free to fill countless boxes with the alarming number of tchotchkes I’d collected during my travels. And while I don’t have any furniture to speak of, I have a serious book problem. I have a motherload of books stored in three locations – books from childhood, books from college and graduate school, books for pleasure, books for work, books I haven’t read yet, books that aren’t even mine. A sensible person would sort through all of these volumes and give away the ones of lesser value. This sensible person would say, “I am going to donate my copy of Chemistry is Fun! so that some less privileged person can learn to blow shit up with fertilizer.”
But no. I can’t seem to part any of my books. I like the way they look. I like the way they smell. They tell the story of my life and they have to come with me, all the way up five flights of stairs.
I remind myself of what the writer Anna Quindlen once said:
I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves.
Of course, there are limits to this, especially if one lives in a 600 square foot apartment shared by two people and two cats. Nevertheless, Fauxhawk is sanguine about the prospect of fitting it all in. “I have a ton of storage space!” he says, as we huff our way up the stairs. Inside, his own bookshelves are heaving. We stuff my additions haphazardly into tiny spaces. We mount shelves. There are books everywhere, on every surface, in every room.
They are not – GASP – sorted by color, height, genre, author, title or subject matter. Shockingly, there are “smart” books next to “embarrassingly bad” books. Everyone knows that you put 105 Ways to Celebrate Menstruation on the bottom shelf in the corner, just as everyone knows you have to put the smart books out in front. This will encourage guests to exclaim, “I had no idea you knew Old English!” so that you can reply, with all the false modesty you can muster, “Well, I’m merely a dabbler. I barely know my yogh from my wynn!” Strangely, Fauxhawk seems unfazed by this missed opportunity to impress visitors. Perhaps he is simply grateful that his cats have not been pulverized by an avalanche of Changing Bodies, Changing Lives; No Bad Dogs! and The Dance of Intimacy.
What on earth do you do with two lives and the books that go with them?
If it didn't make Fauxhawk roll over and die, I’d do this:
If I had a staircase, I’d do this:
If I had $7,000 for built-in shelves, I’d do this:
Any other ideas?
Top image by Perfectbound via Design*Sponge
“70 Penguins” by Hey Mr. Glen
Staircase bookshelves via Apartment Therapy
Library Chair by Debbie Cannaday via File Magazine
