Today my nephew is coming over to help me move some books and bookcases.
I thought of my books last while lying on the loveseat in my study a few weeks ago. I was tired that day, and found myself looking up at these books, with which I had spent so many happy and difficult hours, in many different phases of my life: when I was a little girl, a teenager learning about life, when I wanted to be a novelist, when I was in grad school studying history and (despite myself) becoming a historian. Some of the books I used when I worked as a tutor.
Now that I am writing more every day, there is less time to read, and there is no natural place for some of these books. My intellectual life–where is it today? I have become a more pragmatic learner, finding what I need to for the day, not looking ahead, not dreaming. But not being stuck in becoming either. For better or worse, I have lost my dependency on my old books, and as a consequence I’m having trouble finding the right place for them in my home and my life.