New house. New book placement is in order. It’s taken a week and a half but here I am. Books haphazardly placed in my beloved bookcases which were hand-made by my ever lovely and patient brother-in-law ~ who doesn’t read but sure knows his way around all that carpentry stuff ~ and where do I go from here?
In the last home we lived in (my family and my books) it took a while, but I eventually found an order and rhythm to my book placement. A Vonnegut and Irving section. A next-to-most favourite but no less worthy placement beneath them for my Greene, Hunter S, Armistead, Allende, Kerouac, Sayer Jones. Ruth Park always had me in a tizz – Playing Beattie Bow was a childhood love but A Poor Mans Orange & The Harp in the South are books to be enjoyed by grown ups. And breaking up a collected works is so hard to do. Ugh.
Astrology books, astronomy books, kids books (both books for kids and my childhood relived), my favourite one offs, science, knowledge, music bios, other bios and books, so many books. My own library. I could (and would, often) stumble from my bedroom, half asleep but not nearly sleepy enough to fall into a complete slumber, and know exactly where to go to find what I wanted to read. I reckon that is the best bit of being a grown up ~ my books where I want them to be. For ever and ever. “If that isn’t nice I don’t know what is” says Kurt V and I agree wholeheartedly.
And now, a new house. A weird kind of freedom and responsibility. For where I place these beloved books is of such weird importance to me (and sadly only me, the other members of my family of five could care less. My heart breaks) I will spend weeks moving great piles from shelf to shelf until I find ‘that’ rhythm.
And then this house will feel like home.