Books. I libri.
If you know me, you know that I have a book problem.
I personally have never seen it as an actual problem, per se. What is so wrong about having three overflowing bookcases in your tiny LA apartment?
When it was time for me to pack everything up and leave LA, I conscripted some family members to help me with my move home. As they dutifully toted boxes from one second floor apartment to another second floor apartment 127 miles away, they never complained. One person did finally ask- “What do you have in all of these white boxes?”
“Maybe you should think about getting one of those Kindles.”
A Kindle? But what about the heft? The worn corners? The book smell?!
How do you lend a Kindle to your friends because the story will change the way they see the world?
I don’t think that I am an unreasonable person. I am willing to compromise. DVDs? I’ll definitely sell those. No problemo. I rarely watch movies more than once.
But books are another story entirely.
I tend to form emotional attachments to books. I fall in love with the story, or the characters, or the beautiful words of a truly gifted writer. I have no issue giving these books to friends. Passing along the story to someone who will cherish it (almost) as much as I did. Sharing it with them.
But you want me to sell my books? To strangers?! Strangers who might WRITE in them? Or, God forbid, crease the pages to save their spot?
But on September 25th, I have to pack my entire life into two suitcases.
Ugh. Fine. I am selling my books.
My house is a mess, stacks of books covering the carpet. Joining them now are envelopes addressed to new owners all over the US.
Selling my books feels like the first step in saying goodbye to my life in the US. My literary life is literally disappearing before my eyes- book by book. At least “ciao” can also mean hello.
Ciao, libri! A presto!