A Love Letter to My Bookshelf

theowlhours (62)in #writing • 7 years ago (edited)

I am currently sitting on the floor, my bookshelf towering over my head like a benevolent giant. How can I describe it to you, the feelings I have for this oversized stack of paper? Would you laugh at me if I said that a person’s bookshelf is a map to their soul?

Perhaps you would laugh. And that’s alright — this is not meant to be a serious matter. Books are joyful; they don’t mind laughter. But I think there’s some truth to it. Because whenever I start to feel like I’m unmoored, like everything is changing too fast, I can count on my bookshelf to act as an anchor.

It makes a certain amount of sense. The books we read and love speak to who we are as people — so as our books accumulate over the years, they tend to create a timeline of our personality. I reserve a corner of my bookshelf for my most well-loved picture books for this reason, because they are the beginning of my timeline. Children cannot delude themselves about what they enjoy, for they have not learned that such deceit yet exists. Therefore it is highly likely that the books we loved as children will still hold joy and meaning for us as adults.

Looking at the shelf in front of me, if asked to identify my childhood, I would point to The Underwater Alphabet Book by Jerry Pallotta, The Quiltmaker’s Gift by Jeff Brumbeau, and a tattered photocopy of a story I found at my grandmother’s house, called The Story of Live Dolls by Josephine Gates. Then, for the awkward pre-teen years, I would single out The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale and many fantasy stories by Tamora Pierce. For high school, it would have to be the brightly colored Japanese textbooks and The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. For college it would be a motley collection of travelogues, Lonely Planet guides, A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver, and several thick fantasy tomes by Sarah J. Maas.

The point of this list is not the books themselves, but that I can easily identify them. Through the titles stamped on the spines of my books, I can see the development of my personality. If you want to know what you really like, look at your bookshelf. I happen to love fantasy, and I’ve loved it ever since I could read. It most likely started with stories like The Story of Live Dolls, and it has endured all the way up to the last book I read, called The Tiger’s Daughter by K. Arsenault Rivera. (It comes out in October, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. If you like tight plotting, beautiful world-building, and gorgeous prose, this one’s for you.)

Japanese textbooks, Japanese historical fiction, Japanese cultural studies, Japanese art history treatises, and manga also litter my shelves, so it’s safe to say that Japan is another topic that I love. Then there are all the books which relate to travel — there are nine travel guides on this bookshelf, accompanied by nine travelogues. The two other trends I can identify through book titles alone are creative writing (I have so many books about writing, you guys. Which is funny, because books about writing are a self-enclosed loop created by writers. Writers like to write about writing, and writers like to read about writing. And no one else cares. The fact that writing books continue to be published is a small miracle), and cooking. Not because I’m a particularly good cook, but because I’ve always enjoyed food writing. If you think about why everyone finds cooking shows so enthralling and extrapolate it out to the written word, then you will understand why I own so many cookbooks.

If you take all of these themes from my bookshelf — fantasy, Japan, travel, writing, and food — then you’ve actually got the main aspects of my personality in a nutshell. These are the things that truly fascinate me, that pull me in over and over again. I honestly couldn’t come up with a more succinct list if I tried.

But that’s the beauty of a bookshelf. Because of my books, I don’t have to try to come up with a list to describe my personality. The list is already there, in organic form, whenever I pause to consider what I want to read next. My bookshelf is a map reflecting where I’ve been and, in some ways, predicting where I will go. I’ve used my bookshelf as a grounding force before, whenever I’ve doubted if I truly know myself. (Asking if you really know yourself is a hazard of middle school. And high school. And college… Perhaps, after a certain point, it’s just a symptom of being a living, growing, changing person.) And whenever I doubt who I am, my bookshelf has answers.

This is, perhaps, why I feel some anxiety whenever I am forced to leave my books. Next week, I will be heading back to school for my last year of college. I cannot take many books with me, due to practical considerations such as weight restrictions for suitcases on airplanes. The books I have at school are, also due to practical considerations, mostly ones I have accumulated in the last three years of college. They serve as a less complete picture of who I am — if my bookshelf at home is a neatly labeled photo album, then my bookshelf at school is a handful of hastily-taken polaroids. I don’t love the books I have at college any less, but they cannot calm me in the midst of an existential crisis. They do not feel like friends, like a chorus of understanding paper voices. They are simply books.

Of course, this is a temporary situation. Someday soon, I hope, I will be able to consolidate all of my books somewhere less transient than a college dorm room. But that will require a full-time job, an apartment, a moving truck, and multiple Ikea bookshelves. It sounds like a mundane goal, but I like to imagine that a true sign of adulthood is the knowledge that all of your books are in one place and won’t be going anywhere.

But next week, I will be leaving my bookshelf behind, and I will miss it like an old friend. I cannot do anything about this, nor do I think it is a particular tragedy, in the scheme of things. If you want to have adventures, some sacrifices must be made. But this knowledge does not stop me from sitting on the floor in front of my bookshelf, writing this love letter to it. A happy life is, I think, founded on the knowledge of what we love.

All images provided by Pixabay.

#books #love #life

7 years ago in #writing by theowlhours (62)

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nomad17 (58) 7 years ago

Lovely post. Bookshelves definitely do reflect their owner. But as you said that your books point to your personality, I wonder how those without books or a bookshelf can be described. Do they lack personality? Just a thought, but I do agree with you. I call my books my babies and are loyal friends.

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theowlhours (62) 7 years ago

Hmm... that's an interesting question. I think the things that people are most passionate about will probably reflect them most accurately. A musician, for instance, might be better represented by their Spotify playlists or CD collection than by their bookshelf.