on books
With some of my favourite books far, far away I’ve started to think about them. About how I relate to them and what they mean. I think it’s rather telling that the only real book I packed for the Easter (beside lots of graphic novels) was Robert Bringhurst’s The Elements of Typographic Style—probably the closest thing to a Bible I’ve got. I don’t think I should count the Bill Hicks-book as I picked that up on “the road”.
But a year ago, the list over books I’d like to buy would constantly be under revision. Now, I’ve cut it in half. More than half. It fits on one A4- sheet. Which is weird. Not that I did it, but that I haven’t thought about in until now. Have the books lost their charm? Well, no. I still like books as much as I did before, but then again, that might be it. I’ve grown selective and cynical over the quality of most of the books. I don’t sample them recklessly anymore. It’s sad.
This in turn got me to think about which books I could do without. Hard to answer, but I came to realise most of them. This is a horrible thought, yes, but this is a worst-case scenario type of thing. Normally, I would part for almost any of them, but if I had to, sure. I could fit the must-haves in a suitcase. Because you are what you have read, not what you own. It’s frightening really. I want to go back to the way I was.
