I have become used to the idea of throwing out books. In years gone by, I thought it almost tantamount to a crime.
But, then, I’m not throwing them in the rubbish. I’m giving them to charity. Someone else will get the use of them. Every two or three months, one of the charities that takes books collects bags from the house, and I try to chuck in at least one or two tomes.
Of course, as time goes on, picking books to bung out becomes more difficult, and I find myself saying of some spuriously purchased volume like Practise Mountaineering At Home or The Observer’s Book of Carrier Bags that, one day, I might find it useful.
That is my life: an unopened book. But I’ve become better at parting with the beasts, particularly when they’ve sat around for years in my demesne unread.
I think my new attitude started when a removals firm lost an entire box of paperbacks. That was not a turn-up for the books. I didn’t even notice for months, though that was hardly surprising as the boxes were all put in storage: the garage at Swanky Towers, my friends’ house, where I was staying temporarily at the time.
In fact, much of my life for a while was like that: relocating from place to place, followed by this massive caravan of books. They were my harem and my slaves though, in a way, they ruled my life rather than I ruling theirs.
The box that went missing on its journey from the Grimland Isles contained my sci-fi collection, which went back to my teens. While I’ve lamented its loss from time to time, I’ve got used to it.
I’d probably never re-read any of the books, though I might have liked to hold and examine them, wondering how they influenced my life. Even today, I still wear a space suit when I go for a walk.
More recently, trying to declutter my wee semi for the benefit of potential purchasers, I shipped a load of books back along to the garage at Swanky Towers. This lot consisted of my journalism, writing and self-help collections, the latter of which had proved a self-hindrance.
Months later, they’re still sitting there, and I’m nowhere nearer to moving out. I have this dread feeling that my poor buddy Jim – the Man with the Van – will be enlisted once more to bring back the boxes and bookcases that we’d previously shipped out.
It’s the third time this has happened, and symbolises my chronic indecisiveness, though I prefer to think it was the foolish decisiveness in moving them out in the first place that caused all the trouble. Never make decisions, readers. They always lead to trouble.
The point is, I haven’t missed these books much at all. Occasionally, I might feel a desire to consult Yoga Exercises For Your Hair or Journalism and How to Avoid It, but by and large the beasties remain unlamented, and I’ve even started to think about bunging out the bulk of my remaining books.
Sure, they brighten the house and make me look brainy, but they’re beginning to strike me as a waste of space, which is a pretty good description, certainly, of my sci-fi collection that went missing.
