A few weeks ago, I was weeding through my books, surprised to own so many. In my mind I rarely bought them, because I could not see why I would. Books aren’t cheap. In my opinion it was wise to invest only in the books I would want to read over and over again. To be able to make a proper judgement means you have to read it before you buy it.
Most books don’t make the cut once they are read. Those that did are still in my possession. When I see their covers all lined up, they make me smile. They stand their ground, and like old friends, they are always there. When we catch up, it’s as if only yesterday I caressed their pages. Knowing how the story goes, makes me sink in it even deeper.
The books that had to go, were bought with a very different mind set. I remembered the day that, as a young teenager, I discovered the book closet of my parents. A whole new world opened up to me. A library at home, that grew on me as I grew older. For a girl who spent every possible second with a book, it was heaven. So when I had my own money to spend, I tried to build a collection. Cheap books, second hand. Anything I could afford, hoping one day my child would find himself in front of a treasure, and that he would love it as much as I did.
And then it hit me: I can build a collection for him and he will probably, hopefully, enjoy it. But when I only keep the books I really love, that touch me in some way, I’m giving him a legacy. A way to connect with me, to share. To agree on or to fight with. To add to. And then pass on…