The book cull

November 10, 2009 086

Today I went out and got shot for the flu, and then abruptly my plans changed when the car broke down. Fuel pump, maybe? Unrepairable, probably. It’s an ’85. When we were tail-ended in August, they couldn’t find a taillight to replace the smashed one. ICBC wanted to write the whole thing off.

I’ve spent the afternoon camped out in my parents’ livingroom writing papers and sorting through books to cull. There are thousands here and being a bit of a packrat, I’m not really keen on getting rid of any because they might be useful later.

I’m not just saying that either. I’ve written entire political science, anthropology and history papers using just the books off my parents’ shelves. I like to be able to know that they’re there.

I much prefer this to taking them out from the library. Between my seven library cards I manage to rack up more debt in fines than I pay out in credit card interest. Besides, when I own the book I can keep it pristine. I hate marking up my books. I never break the binding. It feels like a sin.

One day when I grow up I’m going to have huge floor to ceiling bookcases and knowing me wherever I’ll be living will look like McLeod’s and be filled with old tea cups that I’ve forgotten and I’ll probably end up dying in there in an old lopi sweater with my hair tied up in a fantastic knot because it’ll be about twelve feet long.

November 10, 2009 087

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