Boxes and Books

I've spent the morning tidying up my attic, most of which has consisted of my moving heavy boxes from one side to the other. (You wouldn't think an attic full of boxes could be so unruly, but life can be full of surprises.)

I have come to the conclusion that — assuming it's even possible for someone to have too many books — I have too many books. Far too many. Box upon box upon box of them. Some I've had for twenty, perhaps twenty-five years, a few go back even further than that. Some have never been read — others no more than lightly browsed. I look through the boxes, every so often, excited to discover books I'd forgotten.

When we moved to this house in 1998, most of what we brought with us was left in storage, while we settled in and got adjusted. But we came to appreciate the simplicity, the absence of clutter, and many of the books have remained packed away since then. Others line the shelves in a closet. There aren't enough bookshelves in this house — I'm not sure there ever will be.