bookish


Over the years, I’ve learned not to pack a box full of books. No. You spread them around, so that a seemingly lightweight box doesn’t become an unbearable burden to the one who picks it up. And I had to laugh today, at the mix of books spread out in the cartons. The philosophy of Kant, the rantings of Rousseau… Harriet the Spy. Toni Morrison, Sandra Cisneros… Sidney Sheldon.

Packed tightly into boxes are also books that I borrowed over the years and forgot to give back to their rightful owners. I have so many books that I can’t remember who owned what. I can hear my sister already: “Great Scott! I’ve been looking for that anthology for more than five years!” Looking at my mom’s taped and worn-out copy of Atlas Shrugged, I know she’ll pick it up and ask “Well? Did you ever finish it?” (I didn’t.)

And inevitably, some of the books in my collection belonged to ex-loves. Their choice in books says as much about them as their cars, their clothes and their careers. Maybe more.

There was the quiet, soft-spoken guitar teacher who loved gothic horror novels. The sports-obsessed rugby coach who favored Camus. An artist who enjoyed biographies of American Presidents. They’re all there. I can’t remember their phone numbers, and I have to pause and think about their last names, but their love of literature is branded on my brain. A unique part of them and, for better or worse, often more memorable than anything else about the relationship.

Regular blog readers know that I’m a voracious reader. So it might seem odd that most of the men I’ve fallen for aren’t terribly… bookish. I’m the bookish one, head often buried in a tome, oblivious to anything else including ringing phones, blaring TVs and the pile of empty boxes waiting to be filled. But I think it’s good to have a balance. One bookish person + one non-reader isn’t such a bad thing. In fact, it probably gives us all more to talk about. More to contribute to the conversation.

An ex-boyfriend (and a non-reader) who is helping me get ready for the move already offered up the inevitable question: “Why don’t you get rid of some of these books?” I don’t know how to explain that my books are like friends. That they remind me of other times… In the same way that Houses of the Holy will forever transport me back to high school, seeing those dog-eared pages and loose bindings instantly brings me back to who I was, and who I was with when I first read the book… Especially if it belongs to someone else.

Or was written by someone that I used to know.

It’s funny. I know I’ve written about closure on the blog. About putting photos, letters and books away on a high shelf, along with my memories, so that I don’t have to think about them anymore.

But when you start packing up to start a new life, sometimes, you’re confronted once again with your past.

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