This young fella is moving from England to Canada with his partner and they have to cull their book collection. Been there. But only 25 books each? Time to break up, I say. Or get a rental locker. I mean, one of the two.
What we now have left are only those books that either we have yet to read, that we know we will re-read, and any books that might grow in the meantime. Which leaves us at around 800.
But more severe pruning is necessary, because that transatlantic travel limits us, on average, to around 25 books each. Twenty-five. A book for every year that I have lived. It suddenly seems trivial when quantifiable by novels. This is not gardening, I thought. This is swinging a machete through flower arrangements.
