When Does a Booklover’s Collecting Become Hoarding?

Some friends of mine told me a sad tale about books a few years ago. The friends worked for an organization that was named the sole beneficiary of the estate of a retired academic with no remaining family. The organization had cared for the man’s sister in her declining years, and he was so touched by their kindness to her that he left all his worldly possessions to them.

He was not a wealthy man, but had owned his own home in a neighboring state. He’d loved books so much that his entire house was filled with custom-built shelves to accommodate his extensive collection. In fact, in his later years, he no longer slept in a bed. That had been removed to make room for more shelves, and he slept in a recliner.

My friends are lifelong lovers of books, and so am I. And while none of us would likely go to such extremes, the man’s extensive collection both amazed and saddened us. There were thousands upon thousands of books there, which the man had extensively catalogued at first. But gradually failing health must have made caring for his library difficult. He was a strong introvert, and we all hoped that he passed his final years surrounded by what he loved. And yet, as box after box was packed, it became apparent that he’d been unable to care for them over time. Many books had fallen behind shelving and were twisted and bent. Many others were moldy or insect-damaged, and nearly all were covered in dust. Heroic efforts were made at first to find good homes for all that were still in decent shape. Staff members and their family members were invited to have their pick and they took out bundles, but it barely made a dent. There were so many that eventually they were sold to an estate auctioneer and hauled away by truck to who-knows-where.

I have lived much of my life trying to come to terms with the responsibility that comes with the unearned privileges I have. I try to be guided by the words of Saint Basil the Great:

"The bread which you do not use is the bread of the hungry; the garment hanging in your wardrobe is the garment of him who is naked; the shoes that you do not wear are the shoes of the one who is barefoot; the money that you keep locked away is the money of the poor; the acts of charity that you do not perform are so many injustices that you commit."

I give myself a little leeway on some of that, but in general I try not to acquire too much or to waste things and to give up what I don't really need. If I buy new clothing for myself, I always check to see if there’s something that I haven’t worn recently, but is still in good shape. If so, it should be given away at the same time.

But books.. surely books were to be considered differently. Books were the first thing I bought when I started my first after-school job. Books fed my curiosity, consoled me during hard times, and gave me new ideas. Books provided topics of conversation at social events where I was uncomfortable. Gazing at titles on bookshelves gave me a sense of people I was visiting and for visitors to get a sense of me. Books are conversations over place and time, they are ideas embodied, they are teachers of empathy, they are cautionary tales and guideposts; they are warnings and wisdom and laughter and everything in between. Their history, their covers and bindings, and their typesetting are works of art and moments in time. They are more than just things.

I never held back giving up a book to someone who wanted to read it, but made sure that there was an Ex Libris plate with my name on it to remind the borrower to send it home when finished. The only value that I strongly imposed upon my children (other than to be fair and kind to others) was to value books and reading. And so, it was difficult over the years to compromise with my spouse (also a reader, but not a book-collector) about how much room in the house books should take up. My philosophy was to keep adding shelves as we acquired books; his was to give books away as we ran out of shelf space.

I have learned over time to give books away, but I still find it difficult if I don’t have some assurance that they're going to a place where there's a strong likelihood that they'll be read. And with the rise of digitization, I felt it was all the more critical that bound books weren’t going to be hauled away and dumped or neglected somewhere.

But over the past few years, I’ve been learning to let go a little. It was the story of the elderly scholar’s lifetime collection and its sad end that was my first push. I started applying the same rule for books as I have for clothing and other possessions: if someone gives me a book, or I buy one for myself, I must give away one or more that I had previously. I haven’t managed yet to do as Marie Kondo suggests in her book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: empty all the bookshelves into one pile in the middle of the room, and then hold each book and make an active decision about it before putting it back. But the thought that I might not have space to do that in any room of my house, or enough time to do it in a single day, makes me think that if I don’t change my approach, all the books in my house might someday have to be hauled away en masse. And the real tragedy would be that most would have been unread for years.

So now, I’m embarking on a new approach to my life as a lover of books. Before I acquire a bound book, I’ll check first for an ebook version, and then for a copy at my local library. I’ll regularly go through my shelves and ask not: “which am I likely to want to read again at some point?” but rather, “which books deserve to be read sooner, rather than later?” For those books, I’ll try to find a place where potential readers could find them. For those that are particularly special, I’ll likely try something like http://bookmooch.com/, which is a worldwide online book-swapping site. For others, I'll go through the local nonprofit book collector or the woman who teaches at the local women’s prison and collects books every month to improve their under-stocked library. Most of them, I confess, I’m likely to keep, at least for a while.

If I could make better use of my time, I'd list all the books on my shelves that haven't been held, hugged, and read for a while. As I noted recently when book collections came up in one of the groups I belong to, I do see books in a rather animistic way, at least when I'm feeling whimsical. In my imagination, their words long to be read by someone. I want to make sure that they’re in a place where they can meet new people, and be held and thumbed through while reader and book shake hands and consider compatibility. If I’m no longer holding and listening to them, if they’ve become part of the background scenery of the house, wouldn’t I be a better booklover to let them go?