Since I got sucked into the trend of writers posting their #shelfies on Twitter, I’ve been forced to take a closer look at my bookshelves. They are sadly lacking and don’t reflect my reading habits at all. But that’s just it: I haven’t paid much attention to my bookshelves in years – not since a male friend put the revolutionary suggestion to me of having a damn good clear-out, followed by a new policy – only keeping the occasional book you really, really loved reading.
I had, until that suggestion was made, pretty much kept every book I’d ever read since the age of about 18. But as I was rapidly running out of shelf space at the time, had a partner whose art book collection seemed to take an unspoken prominence in our living room, and with a baby on the way, I thought this was sensible advice.…until more recently.
When I wanted to thrust a book at my husband to read the other day (not that he was likely to read it but every now and again I like to thrust some fiction at him as a dare) I was galled to find it was no longer on my shelves. I’d loved it so much I’d forced it upon an unsuspecting friend almost immediately after reading it. Damn! Now I had to go and buy it again, because whether the husband read it or not, I suddenly regretted giving it away. (The book in question was Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns.)
My piddly little collection of most beloved books had shrunk over the years as I’d been too quick to give books away to friends and charity shops. I’d quite liked the idea that I was recycling books and passing on the joy of reading them, and yet at the same time, I’d diddled myself out of a collection of much-loved reads.
Instead, ten years after I’d introduced my new policy, our shelves were heaving with the husband’s art, design and photography books, the husband’s business books, the husband’s autobiography and travel memoir collection and the kids’ books. Whereas I had been SQUEEZED OUT! All I had was a handful of classics from my degree course, a couple of chick lit reads from my early twenties and Wild Swans by Jung Chang (which my late, great aunt forced me to buy and for which I’m eternally grateful.)
So, over the last year or so, I’ve been trying to re-grow my Greatest Reads collection and resist giving books away. Is this because I’d like to one day produce a really impressive #shelfie that speaks volumes about the well-read unsnobbish fiction consumer I am? Not really. (Oh go on, then.) Or is it because it’s high time I claimed back some shelf-territory from the husband and kids? Nope. (I’ve already cleared out a crap-stack of his business books and he hasn’t even noticed.)
I just want to hoard the books that made me laugh, cry, or drew me into a world I didn’t want to leave. Because books that make you feel something are works of art. And treasure is for keeping.
In short, I intend to be more shelfish. (Sorry.)