This weekās rebroadcast from 2012 considers the difference between ownership versus access, and asks about the value of a personal library.
I love books. I always have. More than just the words and stories, I love books as physical objects: the cloth ribbon of the spine, the sound of pages turning, the smell of the paper.
Like most writers Iāve met, I was an early and voracious reader. At first, I got my fix from the public library, but once I started being able to buy my own books ā Scholastic books from the school flyer, or the complete Three Investigators series ā I quickly filled my shelves.
Over the years, my collection grew. A lot.
Transporting them was always a pain, of course. During my first few years in Los Angeles, I moved into a new apartment every summmer, which meant boxing up everything again and again. But I felt sure it was worth the hassle. I knew that someday Iād own a house with a proper library, and Iād have a permanent place for all these books Iād accumulated over the years.
I now own a house with a proper library.1 It can hold roughly 2,000 books. And since I honestly donāt ever want to move again, I think I finally have library I always wanted.
Except I donāt really want the books anymore.
What changed
Most of the books Iāve read in the last few years have been on the Kindle. E-books obviously have pros and cons, both for readers and authors. As a consumer, I mostly value their convenience: my book is always there, ready to read when I want it.
But itās not just the experience of reading thatās changed. The notion of āowningā a book on Kindle is very different than owning a physical book. An e-book doesnāt sit half-read on a table, mocking you for not finishing it. Thereās never a question of where to store it when youāre done. E-books are the clever butlers of literature: there when you want them, absent when you donāt.
Over time, e-books have become my default choice. If a hardcover and a Kindle edition are the same price, Iāll pick bits over atoms.
And the same holds true for books I already own. Until quite recently, if I wanted to re-read Candide, Iād find the paperback copy on my shelf. But now, honestly, Iām more likely to read it on my Kindle, or my iPad or my iPhone.
So why keep all these printed books?
I can think of a few reasons:
To show off. For most of human history, vast personal libraries meant you had money and culture. Even now, Iāll confess to gawking at library porn. But something about huge private libraries makes me queasy, the same as when someone has a giant swimming pool or double tennis courts. How much can you actually use those? Why not share them?
To remember. With some books, I remember exactly when I read them. I can feel the plastic-y beanbag chair upon which I read The Mists of Avalon. The physical book helps ground the experience in a place and time; it was the only time I stared at those pages.
To have a backup, just in case. An electromagnetic pulse could theoretically wipe out all the data in North America. But if that were to happen, I think Iād have bigger concerns than wanting to re-read Tess of the DāUrbervilles.
So, for the last year, Iāve been casting a hard eye on my books. Every few weeks, I pick a new shelf. Taking each book in hand, I force myself to choose between three options: Keep, Donate or Recycle.
Recycle is for books that donāt have value for me, and probably donāt have value for anyone else. In this category go old software manuals and how-to books, āmodernā science books more than 10 years old, and outdated travel guides. My test isnāt āmight this book be useful for someone,ā but rather, āis it likely that someone wants this physical copy?ā If the answer is no, it goes in the blue recycling bin.
The Keep books go back on the shelf.
The Donate books go in a box that I drop off at the library.2
Deciding between Keep or Donate starts with one simple question: āIs the best place for this book my shelf, or some elseās?ā
When you phrase the question this way, itās surprisingly easy to empty your shelves. Youāre not abandoning these books; youāre giving them new homes where other people can enjoy them.
Youāre like Andy in Toy Story 3. Youāre doing the right thing.
Except that most of the books youāre giving away arenāt Buzz and Woody. Theyāre the various indistinguishable plastic soldiers you never really cared about.
These are books you half-read and barely remember. These are gifts you received, unsolicited. Youāre never going to read them, so why not let someone else?
When I think back on my fantasy library, I suspect what I wanted more than books was a temple of knowledge, a sanctuary in which I could find quickly answers to any question.
And now I have that. Itās called the internet.
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š£ Have ideas for future topics (or just want to say hello)? Reach out to Chris via email at inneresting@johnaugust.com, Twitter @ccsont, or Mastodon @ccsont@mastodon.art
If youāre curious, you can see my library in a scene from The Nines, at 11:32.
At least in LA, most books you donate at the library never enter the collection, but are rather sold to raise money.