Putting things in their place and realizing I don’t need them
Aside from reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius* at my bedside. I’m unearthing boxes of books strewn about the place and putting them on to shelves.
I’m never going to read Socrates to Satre, now am I really? And that DeLillo hardback is just too thick. I should take those, and that Quicksilver to the used bookstore and be done with it.
Thing is, it’s really not worth the effort lugging them. Sad, really. How all that thought carefully typeset and packed onto slices of paper just becomes a burden. It’s not the author’s fault though, or publishers, but my own.
* with a title like that, you’d think I’d have to break out the tissues, or scribble down amazing insight while reading Dave Egger’s novel. But no, it’s just kinda self-referential and cold. I want to be bowled over, but I’m not.