We are, at long last, unpacking all the books we own. Those of you who have helped us move will be wondering how we can afford the rent on the second house, to put them in, but what really happened is that we were given (given!) approximately 15 feet of 8 foot high bookshelves. (Wee perspective: this will hold all but 6 or 7 hundred of our books) So it's a bit of a Job.
Especially since I think if I'm going to put 700 paperbacks on bookshelves, I want to be able to FIND my copy of Out of Africa* when I want it, so I am insisting on alphabetizing the paperbacks. ("Please", I sobbed a few nights ago, "May I never see another book." And then I went upstairs to fall asleep in a bubble bath with ...umm ...a book.)
However, this post is only peripherally about how many books there are. This post is primarily to make fun of myself. We have 50 books in their own bookshelf, fancy leather bound editions of Classics or some such thing put out by the Franklin Library several years ago. I've just finished putting these, alphabetized, on their special bookshelf. They're lovely fancy looking books and I haven't read a single one of them, because I was saving them for ...brace yourself ...I was saving them to read, in a halo of lamplight apparently, while I nursed my children, in those long relaxed hours you have when you bring home your first child.
For some reason, I still haven't gotten to them. Can't think why not.
*Or one of my copies. Apparently if it's worth owning, it's worth owning twice. Or three times, in the case of The Secret Garden.