Culling

I’ll always believe you can never have too many books, but I have more books than I want. 

There are the tedious music books (many on opera), a multitude of misguided cocktail manuals and second-rate cookbooks, and a motley assortment of translated lit I’ll never read again. How about the poetry treading water while humming off-key refrains and fanciful classics scratching neither an intellectual nor aesthetic itch? Then there are those volumes insatiably snapped up in a haze of book-sale arousal—do I need to take on more debt to fill the Oxford University Press coffers every time they slash their prices in half? Seriously, I’ll be just fine without making more room on my shelves for the latest 400-page deep-dive into the Brontë family’s breakfast habits or that searing overview of assonance in Antartic verse.

I’m not trying to conjure up any magic by tidying up, I’m just trying to get rid of some books and hold onto the ones I really really want—which is not most!