I Loved You When I Read This Book

My apartment is a relatively palatal 700 sq. ft. NYC brownstone, and I’ve managed to fill it with about 1,200 books without looking like a crazy person.  But even so, I found myself strategically eying my bathroom walls today wondering if IKEA had any moisture-resistant bookshelves. I’ve reached capacity.

And yet there is nothing left to weed – every single book that’s left is part of my emotional or intellectual psyche. I’m not so great at taking pictures or scrapbooking, so my shelves are the visual representation of my life. When I look at The Brothers Karamozov, I remember traveling around Naxos after college, broke and eating $2 gyros. When I see The Dive from Clausen’s Pier – all swollen from the Caribbean Sea – I flash back to that Thanksgiving I went to the Bahamas alone and ended up partying for three days with the crew of British Airways. And every time I walk by the Sookie Stackhouse series, my chest tightens as I remember a horrific, unforgivable and unforgettable breakup. The breakup. Yes, these books are the catalog of my life.

And so I will search for new shelves this weekend, and I will find space – either in my bathroom, or closer to my ceiling, or where practical things like dishes are supposed to live.