My bookcases did not look like this picture, but they were crammed.
The decluttering continues. If I were keeping track of pounds, I would have a nice big total since I donated my old car. Even without the car, my weight loss would be considerable: eight boxes of books over the weekend. It’s a pretty good chunk of volume, too.
I feel lighter. When I look at my bookshelves, which I do about a million times a day while procrastinating or searching for a word or pretending I know how to spell, I feel good. I think I am out of trophy books. I can imagine picking up and reading the books that are currently on my shelves rather than hanging on to them in case someone decides to test me on the contents of The Idiot or The Stranger.
Sure, I probably look less intellectual and deep now. Guess what! I am! So I kept some Agatha Christies and ditched Turgenev. Big deal! I was never going to finish Ulysses anyway. And I now have room for whatever Don DeLillo writes next, once I finish my to-reads.