A Brighton based Author, Playwright, Insatiable Reader, Publisher ....and foodie.
I thought I would re-read my bookshelves, prior to a much needed cull. Keepers or charity shop? Please help me decide. Most of the books are beloved old friends, some are new, and some are waiting to be tasted. Some need to GO.
I am convinced that one day I will be found buried under the toppling pile of books on my bedside table, but tant pis, there are worse ways to go. I blame it on my mother. She was a true bibliophile, teaching me to read when I was four, begging me with tears in her eyes that “It would be so much fun!” She was right. It was.
Some of her books I inherited (apart from the Dickens which she adored and I had, and have, an aversion to) So, I thought I’d start with some of her old friends.
Yes, it's cull time again. I try to be ruthless. Honest. But then sentimentality gets the better of me. Politeness, too. I mean, I KNOW some of these authors and even if I'm never, ever going to read them again, I can't chuck them. And then I'm vexed as to what to actually DO with 'em. Yes, yes, of course I do charity shops...well, to be honest, I do when I can cajole someone with strong arms to carry them there. Then we have the 'library' in the entrance hall where the top post shelf are full of the 7 flats here unwanted books. The theory is of course that you 'borrow' one and replace one. That's the theory. In practice what happens is that it gets chock with unwanted Dan Brown and Jeffrey Archer (NOT mine I hasten to add) Then I take a book bag to book club every month and dish 'em out. Ditto to friends. But even with all that I swear the pesky things are breeding. Then, the other night, it happened. The thing that I'd been dreading and yet expecting for some time. An avalanche in the middle of the night. A tsunami of books flooded the bed. Crashing down on me (and Flo who really was no help at all. In fact if I had ever thought that she would be any use as a guard dog, that theory was firmly quashed as her trembling body tried to wriggle under my pillow whilst making imploring yelps of distress. Not growls of attack.) So, the bedside table is looking a little empty, the shelves are groaning, there are three book bags ready for the next strong armed friend to take to the shop and Flo is looking, well, a little more secure...