I’ve just moved into a new flat and enjoyed that backbreaking resentment borne of transporting hundreds of books in a mish-mash collection of boxes common to bibliophiles the world over. Really I want all my books to stretch their spines and flutter after me wherever I roam, like musty but expansive butterflies. Failing that, I’d like someone else to move them all for me please (thanks to everyone who did lend a hand!).
But transporting the trusty tomes from one residence to another is merely the beginning of my worries. The new flat has substantially fewer book-bearing pieces of furniture than I’ve become accustomed to. Unfortunately, the new flat is also considerably more expensive than the old one so I can’t indulge in a spending-spree where I gleefully choose graceful new bedding for my bound buddies. Instead I’ve a pile of over ten, bashed, cardboard boxes in the corner of my room. I can feel my books glowering at me right through the brown tape I used to seal them in.
Two bookcases survived the move however, and on the first day I did have the chance to enjoy a little of the meditative pleasure of racking up my favourites and creating a little order amidst the chaos of all of my other, shoddily packed, possessions.
Until the rest of my books are unpacked I won’t feel at home so hopefully next pay day will provide me with enough cash to rectify the situation – even if it does mean an Ikea job. On the bright side, my new room does have a massive window and a nook perfect for my desk. Hopefully that means I’ll get plenty of writing (as well as reading) done here.
4 thoughts on “I moved house and my books are sulking”
I always enjoy the descriptive nature of your writing.
Sorry your books can’t flutter…
🙂 thanks! Compliments are almost as good as flying books anyway…
“…and on the first day I did have the chance to enjoy a little of the meditative pleasure of racking up my favourites and creating a little order amidst the chaos…”
My friend is in the same boat, moving into a much smaller place. When I suggested (foolishly) that she merely choose the ones she was most likely to re-read and ditch the rest, she glowered at me, informing me that she intended to re-read ALL of them at some point, and then, her expression softening, said that in any case she wouldn’t be able to handle the trauma making such a selection would cause.
It took a while for me to realise that she was talking about the trauma the books themselves would suffer, being cast out by their formerly loving owner, and the resentment of the ‘saved’ books at the callousness of their formerly lovely owner which could allow such a cull in the first place.
You bibliophiles are weird.
we can’t help it 🙂
I remember the first time someone told me about books being burnt, I was horrified – and not for any political or grand notions (I was pretty young after all) but because it seemed so cruel to me. Poor little books.
Hmm, maybe I should say some nice things about the people, and not the paper, in my life soon!