Where on earth did all these darn books come from? I'm still boxing the things up and I've been doing it for a couple of weeks now. I've managed to clean out a large book case (keeping all of my husband's at his request and donating mine that I don't want) and my nightstand and have come up with six boxes of books to keep and six bags of books to donate. That doesn't include the small amount of books I've decided not to put in storage or donate (fiction books I know I'll read again, baby-related books for the first couple years, etc.).
Still, it's like these books are crawling out of the woodwork. There are books from my graduate program - books by Plato and Plutarch and Nietzsche, plus ceramic dating techniques, information on the evolution of writing, South American paleoethnobotany, bone identification, etc. - some of which I'll keep to make myself feel good when I'm old. Then there are the trashy romances, a couple anthologies that I was in, and about a bazillion from other authors (what? a girl's gotta do some research). Then there is the mishmash of literary fiction, poetry, household how-to books, random recipe books and a copy of the Ramayana that my husband's granddad gave me while we were in India. It's such a weird collection.
I love my books. I wish I had the time to sit down and catalog them all so I know which ones I've read, but if I run out of steam just bagging them up, I can't imagine I'll ever get them out the door if I record them. I still have bookcase #2 to go and a closet full of odds and ends - books, books and more books, plus photos and other things I stuffed in there one day when I was cleaning to get ready for my sister to visit.
Gah! How did I get so much stuff and when did it all get so disorganized? Oh, well. Better late than never to get it together, I suppose. Maybe by the time these kids are in college I'll have gotten organized enough to stop obsessing over my bookcases.
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