I got rid of 50 boxes of books because my wife and I were moving to assisted living. She has alzheimers and needed more support than I could provide myself. She's now in memory care, and I'm living in an apartment. I miss my books! I didn't think I would, because I reserve books at the library all the time. But it's hard to have to postpone the impulse to look something up, or to re-read.
You're stronger than I am, Ruth! Just moved into a new house to start a new life and decided to buy extra bookcases and unbox every book I could... parting with them is a fate too terrible to contemplate.
Thank you for the relatable tour of your books. I so enjoyed your essay! As I stare at my eclectic collection, housed across nearly every room, I'm intrigued by your idea that our books serve as a map of our inner life. Hmm, the well-loved children's books that echo with warm memories, the New Mexico-themed histories, biographies, and memoirs, the early readers belonging to long-gone Appalachian relatives, the classics with vintage illustrations, the far-flung titles that populated the ever-changing stack beside my great-grandfather's Oregon farmhouse chair, scores of cherished titles that made me think, challenged or encouraged, delighted or horrified. Yes, they are all a reflection of a full life well lived and replete with memories.
I'm a Certified Professional Organizer. In my almost-25 years in practice, I've found that books are by far the hardest type of "clutter" (a reader hesitates to use that term for books!) from which to part. It's even a struggle for me with my own books.
Practical items (like housewares or bed linens) are usually the easiest unless they are tied to something aspirational, like wanting to become a chef; clothing is often fraught, not because of the clothes, but our relationships to our bodies. (It's SO much easier for men to let go of old clothes, which they generally perceive primarily as functional.)
But books? They represent our intellectual and emotional histories, as well as our aspirational selves. Educators and writers seem to have the greatest struggle because the intellectual *potential* in every book is the outsized feature. Thank you for writing this, because no matter how often I blog about culling book collections from a professional perspective, nothing is more relevant than a personal memoir on the topic.
I found your post through Gretchen Rubin's share. As a teacher, writer, and traumatic injury survivor, I'm a saver, and my possessions often mark poignant moments in my life -- reminders of the "before" and "after." I struggle to let things go, but at the same time, I fantasize about leaving it all behind! :) Thanks for this piece. I really related to it!
Thank you, Ruth! This is so helpful, as we are downsizing in preparation for a move sometime in the hazy future. So many of the books I held onto for years were those I felt I should read because of my lit courses, favorite professors, fellow grad students. Decades later, I still had a sort of critic in my head telling me I didn't measure up because those books were still sitting on the shelf simply gathering dust. I finally let go of many of them, keeping only the ones that moved me deeply and have somehow changed or guided me toward who I am now. I need to do another extensive culling now. It's hard to donate or give away books, but I'm finding a sense of joy in passing them along to other readers who will enjoy them. Thank you again for your piece. You've inspired me to start a "letting go" stack.
I did something similar a few months back, thinking - I need to get rid of books I'm never gonna read again or want to give to my kids to read in order to make room for other books :D
The result was over 40 books that I intended to take downtown to Strand before I realized how little it'll pay, and how badly my chronically injured shoulder will hate me.
Then a friend recommended Pango books and I've been loving it. Among other things, it made me be more critical and less sentimental with every book I read and realize in real time whether or not I wanna keep it, or I can post it for sale.
"The first novel I ever reviewed for The New York Times also got to stay—but not the six previous ones by the same author that I diligently consumed in preparation."
I did literally the identical thing when I moved. My first NYT review was Hunk City by James Wilcox, and I read all of his prior books (also six, I think); and when I moved, only Hunk City survived.
I also recall something you wrote apropos Mitchell - I am pretty sure it was your review of Black Swan Green (going from memory here, no Google) where you talked about the paucity of the language of praise, that too much of it sounded like a publicity blurb. I share this with my students all the time ...
Books! Dozens of boxes to the local library for their used book sale. I realized that even if all I did for the rest of my life was read I could never have taken in even a fraction of them. A map of my inner life and my personal development, parting with them felt like shedding my skin. Yet, afterwards I felt light and free. And I haven't missed any of them. And I'm not at all diminished without them.
Things that I had a hard time letting go: books, books and more books - inherited (1980s and 1990s), from yard sales and more. Things I thought I needed to learn more about: biographies, dreams, psychoanalysis, computer, finances, mysteries, parenting (more mysteries!), grief. I had 2,000 books and was running out of space. So now, at age 78, I can let them go. And I am! slowly but surely. I thank you.
The other thing I thought I could never let go, for sentimental reasons: my husband's family home, which I inherited. It was built by his parents in 1951. But at some point, it was time, so I sold the house earlier this year. Difficult, but not impossible. I am now free, of too many books and real estate that had become a burden.
Again, thank you for a most helpful, supportive essay.
Dear Ruth, Thank you for writing this -- what was especially poignant was hearing about (and the images of) what you found within your books. When we left Washington Heights for Brighton Beach during the pandemic, we took pictures of all the books on our shelves, and sent them to various booksellers -- as there was nowhere to drop books off. No one would take them -- except for one bookstore, where you had to wait in line, with little batches, and compete with others who were also decluttering. Late at night, we would leave heaps of them in Fresh Direct bags at the “little libraries” in our neighborhood...what’s funny is, now that I look around, I kept the most impractical things, the ones that did have flowers and old postcards inside of them, and the set of late Soviet children’s books, which are more like pamphlets, in case I ever learn Russian (?), but not the teaching copies of things, with all the notes in the margins. It’s like having a phantom limb when I’m about to teach something, and I can see the page and the notes in my mind, but the real thing is on a curb somewhere...Which of the books you left behind have returned to you as, well, such ghosts? Miss you! MDL
I got rid of 50 boxes of books because my wife and I were moving to assisted living. She has alzheimers and needed more support than I could provide myself. She's now in memory care, and I'm living in an apartment. I miss my books! I didn't think I would, because I reserve books at the library all the time. But it's hard to have to postpone the impulse to look something up, or to re-read.
You're stronger than I am, Ruth! Just moved into a new house to start a new life and decided to buy extra bookcases and unbox every book I could... parting with them is a fate too terrible to contemplate.
Thank you for the relatable tour of your books. I so enjoyed your essay! As I stare at my eclectic collection, housed across nearly every room, I'm intrigued by your idea that our books serve as a map of our inner life. Hmm, the well-loved children's books that echo with warm memories, the New Mexico-themed histories, biographies, and memoirs, the early readers belonging to long-gone Appalachian relatives, the classics with vintage illustrations, the far-flung titles that populated the ever-changing stack beside my great-grandfather's Oregon farmhouse chair, scores of cherished titles that made me think, challenged or encouraged, delighted or horrified. Yes, they are all a reflection of a full life well lived and replete with memories.
WOnderful piece, Ruth, and captures the experience of so many of us with these sagging shelves and shifting ambitions.... THank you.
I'm a Certified Professional Organizer. In my almost-25 years in practice, I've found that books are by far the hardest type of "clutter" (a reader hesitates to use that term for books!) from which to part. It's even a struggle for me with my own books.
Practical items (like housewares or bed linens) are usually the easiest unless they are tied to something aspirational, like wanting to become a chef; clothing is often fraught, not because of the clothes, but our relationships to our bodies. (It's SO much easier for men to let go of old clothes, which they generally perceive primarily as functional.)
But books? They represent our intellectual and emotional histories, as well as our aspirational selves. Educators and writers seem to have the greatest struggle because the intellectual *potential* in every book is the outsized feature. Thank you for writing this, because no matter how often I blog about culling book collections from a professional perspective, nothing is more relevant than a personal memoir on the topic.
I found your post through Gretchen Rubin's share. As a teacher, writer, and traumatic injury survivor, I'm a saver, and my possessions often mark poignant moments in my life -- reminders of the "before" and "after." I struggle to let things go, but at the same time, I fantasize about leaving it all behind! :) Thanks for this piece. I really related to it!
Thank you, Ruth! This is so helpful, as we are downsizing in preparation for a move sometime in the hazy future. So many of the books I held onto for years were those I felt I should read because of my lit courses, favorite professors, fellow grad students. Decades later, I still had a sort of critic in my head telling me I didn't measure up because those books were still sitting on the shelf simply gathering dust. I finally let go of many of them, keeping only the ones that moved me deeply and have somehow changed or guided me toward who I am now. I need to do another extensive culling now. It's hard to donate or give away books, but I'm finding a sense of joy in passing them along to other readers who will enjoy them. Thank you again for your piece. You've inspired me to start a "letting go" stack.
I did something similar a few months back, thinking - I need to get rid of books I'm never gonna read again or want to give to my kids to read in order to make room for other books :D
The result was over 40 books that I intended to take downtown to Strand before I realized how little it'll pay, and how badly my chronically injured shoulder will hate me.
Then a friend recommended Pango books and I've been loving it. Among other things, it made me be more critical and less sentimental with every book I read and realize in real time whether or not I wanna keep it, or I can post it for sale.
Personally, a real game changer!
I loved this one, Ruth. Especially this:
"The first novel I ever reviewed for The New York Times also got to stay—but not the six previous ones by the same author that I diligently consumed in preparation."
I did literally the identical thing when I moved. My first NYT review was Hunk City by James Wilcox, and I read all of his prior books (also six, I think); and when I moved, only Hunk City survived.
I also recall something you wrote apropos Mitchell - I am pretty sure it was your review of Black Swan Green (going from memory here, no Google) where you talked about the paucity of the language of praise, that too much of it sounded like a publicity blurb. I share this with my students all the time ...
Wishing you and yours well.
Books! Dozens of boxes to the local library for their used book sale. I realized that even if all I did for the rest of my life was read I could never have taken in even a fraction of them. A map of my inner life and my personal development, parting with them felt like shedding my skin. Yet, afterwards I felt light and free. And I haven't missed any of them. And I'm not at all diminished without them.
Thank you, Ruth!
Things that I had a hard time letting go: books, books and more books - inherited (1980s and 1990s), from yard sales and more. Things I thought I needed to learn more about: biographies, dreams, psychoanalysis, computer, finances, mysteries, parenting (more mysteries!), grief. I had 2,000 books and was running out of space. So now, at age 78, I can let them go. And I am! slowly but surely. I thank you.
The other thing I thought I could never let go, for sentimental reasons: my husband's family home, which I inherited. It was built by his parents in 1951. But at some point, it was time, so I sold the house earlier this year. Difficult, but not impossible. I am now free, of too many books and real estate that had become a burden.
Again, thank you for a most helpful, supportive essay.
Luci Alvis
Dear Ruth, Thank you for writing this -- what was especially poignant was hearing about (and the images of) what you found within your books. When we left Washington Heights for Brighton Beach during the pandemic, we took pictures of all the books on our shelves, and sent them to various booksellers -- as there was nowhere to drop books off. No one would take them -- except for one bookstore, where you had to wait in line, with little batches, and compete with others who were also decluttering. Late at night, we would leave heaps of them in Fresh Direct bags at the “little libraries” in our neighborhood...what’s funny is, now that I look around, I kept the most impractical things, the ones that did have flowers and old postcards inside of them, and the set of late Soviet children’s books, which are more like pamphlets, in case I ever learn Russian (?), but not the teaching copies of things, with all the notes in the margins. It’s like having a phantom limb when I’m about to teach something, and I can see the page and the notes in my mind, but the real thing is on a curb somewhere...Which of the books you left behind have returned to you as, well, such ghosts? Miss you! MDL
As always, I so enjoy reading your posts, Ruth. Do you happen to know if that Yale conference ONLY for Yale affiliates?