The contents of someone's bookcase are part of his history, like an ancestral portrait.It resonated with me, particularly as we contemplate moving next year, work on paring down our voluminous possessions, and as I gaze on my library (not to mention the many volumes squirreled away elsewhere in our home).
Open my front door and the first thing you notice are books. They line the walls, hover overhead, and stack up on tables. Each is a chunk of autobiography, a clue to who I was while reading it, what I found to love inside its pages and where it sent me next.She has some feelings about this that don't touch me, "I fear that disposing of my possessions would dissolve me. I’m precariously balanced on an emotional seesaw". I don't fear that at all. But I do like my books, my library, the feelings they evoke and the memories they create.