Spring is the time of year I get a rush of energy. I want to tidy and clean and shift things around. This year it’s also a time when I am planning on moving, so I have to pack up all my things into boxes. Yuck. It’s always when I go to pack up books that I discover how dusty they can become. So, I’m thinking I should clean them as they go into boxes, not as they come out again.
This has also made me realise, yet again, how many books I have. I last read some of these books up to 30 years ago or more, and even though I might not exactly remember the whole story or even characters’ names, I still can remember the feeling I had for each one of my books as I read it.
I remember how desperate I was to return to some books each day, the shock I felt at a certain point in a story (I remember tossing a book across the room in horror), how I have sobbed uncontrollably while reading, how I giggled with others (which always draws a sideways look from the dog), and how I was left bereft so many times when I finished the last page. I remember spending many hours browsing through my Readers Digest Guide to Plants and Flowers. It was so pleasurable imagining what I could plant where and feeling greenly envious of those who lived in cold climates and could grow beautiful flowering plants that I couldn’t or had acreage instead of my handkerchief yard. I loved to browse art books which inspired me to think outside the norm when in a creative mood.
I also remember the feelings of frustration when reading a series and having to wait for the next book to come out. Should I have waited for a whole series to come out before dipping in? Or should I reread the previous books when a new one comes out?
There was always the odd shaking of my head in disbelief when I thought the author had a character, act or say something that I thought was out of character.
There are books I haven’t yet read, but still want to. They have collected dust for years in some instances but I can’t let them go. Akina Hansen has some more on this on page 14.
There are books I can look at and think, I really didn’t like that. Here I always bring up Wuthering Heights. Apologies to the classicists! But at least I liked it more than Twilight! Apologies to vampirists too! That’s a shocking comparison I know and inappropriate.
I wonder why I keep books I didn’t enjoy much. After all, what’s the point? What if after I die relatives rifle through my shelves thinking these are the books I’ve loved? They might be raising some eyebrows after reading some titles!
And Baxter, who’s enjoying vegan chicken stock, sweet potato and papaya!