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3.73 AVERAGE
3.73 AVERAGE
This book certain nailed me.
Like the writer, I'm flooded with books. I've loved them dearly since I was very young. They've been my friends, my escape, my teacher, my philosopher. Books have made more impact to me, than everyone I've known. They introduced me to my God, to thinking for myself, to discernment, to understanding, to discovery. In my own introverted way, books are my connection to the world, and my way of responding.
But as some are want to pick up stray dogs, I pick up stray books. 4 huge bookcases packed to the gills stand sentry in my room, as if holding refugees from the torture horrid children, cat ladies, and people who would rather use them as kindling. My nightstand looks as if I'm planning to build a mountain out of library books, and I have books sandwiched in my sock drawer, and inbetween sweaters, thermals and pajamas. They collect in my car, in my desk at work, and on my kindle. Yet for what purpose? Like the writer the books are here for many reasons: nostalgia, interest, something idolized, something I want to read when life stops barging into my introverted bubble demanding I grow up and face the world. I struggle between my desire to live minimally, and yet read unabated.
Weeding my collection has been hard and easy. Some books I never had a passing interest besides the junkie urge to have another book to read, but others have literally become part of me. Surely 'Ben-Hur','Oz' and 'Alice' will never leave me, but what about everything else?
This is the struggle with all readers, but especially with me. My faith demands I abandon the seeking of hoarding up things. My materialistic habits of book and film buying (classic movies!) has literally (and foolishly) costed a few thousand and turned my bedroom into a exiled apartment that appears to belong to someone thrice my age. The problem, touched upon in the book, is letting one's things and interest define oneself. As I struggle to grow maturely, ill have less and less attachment to these things in quite the same way. Books will always be magical, but they won't dwarf friends, family, and faith---but will compliment it. Certainly a tall order in our 'and have our cake too!' Society.
Like the writer, I'm flooded with books. I've loved them dearly since I was very young. They've been my friends, my escape, my teacher, my philosopher. Books have made more impact to me, than everyone I've known. They introduced me to my God, to thinking for myself, to discernment, to understanding, to discovery. In my own introverted way, books are my connection to the world, and my way of responding.
But as some are want to pick up stray dogs, I pick up stray books. 4 huge bookcases packed to the gills stand sentry in my room, as if holding refugees from the torture horrid children, cat ladies, and people who would rather use them as kindling. My nightstand looks as if I'm planning to build a mountain out of library books, and I have books sandwiched in my sock drawer, and inbetween sweaters, thermals and pajamas. They collect in my car, in my desk at work, and on my kindle. Yet for what purpose? Like the writer the books are here for many reasons: nostalgia, interest, something idolized, something I want to read when life stops barging into my introverted bubble demanding I grow up and face the world. I struggle between my desire to live minimally, and yet read unabated.
Weeding my collection has been hard and easy. Some books I never had a passing interest besides the junkie urge to have another book to read, but others have literally become part of me. Surely 'Ben-Hur','Oz' and 'Alice' will never leave me, but what about everything else?
This is the struggle with all readers, but especially with me. My faith demands I abandon the seeking of hoarding up things. My materialistic habits of book and film buying (classic movies!) has literally (and foolishly) costed a few thousand and turned my bedroom into a exiled apartment that appears to belong to someone thrice my age. The problem, touched upon in the book, is letting one's things and interest define oneself. As I struggle to grow maturely, ill have less and less attachment to these things in quite the same way. Books will always be magical, but they won't dwarf friends, family, and faith---but will compliment it. Certainly a tall order in our 'and have our cake too!' Society.
I toooooootallllllllly loved this!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So many great lines. It is one of my favorite things I have read all year.
Very short, but nice read, and at the same time a kind of propaganda publication for Kindle (note that it is published by Kindle!). Still, it has some great quotes on what a personal library stands for. "I return in memory and imagination, but I return by taking a book down from the shelf, and reading a few pages. That is a library. A full larder for the soul . "
This is a short book. More of an extended essay. But I have never read anything which spoke to me as directly as this book. It is about books. It is about what they mean both as objects and as the repositories of text.
Linda Grant is moving house and has to 'murder her library'. This is a process I have undertaken myself. When I moved to my new room from the house I lived in I gave away twenty-five boxes of books to a second hand bookshop that would take them. It still hurts. I still have hundreds, possibly thousands, of books here in the room I now live. Every shelf, cupboard and surface has books on it. The mantlepiece has books on it. Three rows of books piled on top of each other buttressed by two columns of books to stop them falling off the edge of the mantlepiece. There are 251 books on the mantlepiece alone. In most respect it is too many books. I'm an unhealthy man in his early 50s. I'm unlikely to read all of the books in this room before I die, let alone buying more books. Books are my comfort. Both as objects and actual content. Perhaps they are a crutch. They are certainly what I spend most of my money on. They are memories and dreams, hopes and fears. They bring me joy and they make me cry. They have provided me with a clogged up memory that is full of information that can only be bought out by pub quizzes it often seems.
That is why Linda Grant's book meant so much to me. It felt like reading my own memoir - but without actually being a writer. At least professionally.
It's a lovely little book. It's not on my shelf though. It is on my Kindle.
Linda Grant is moving house and has to 'murder her library'. This is a process I have undertaken myself. When I moved to my new room from the house I lived in I gave away twenty-five boxes of books to a second hand bookshop that would take them. It still hurts. I still have hundreds, possibly thousands, of books here in the room I now live. Every shelf, cupboard and surface has books on it. The mantlepiece has books on it. Three rows of books piled on top of each other buttressed by two columns of books to stop them falling off the edge of the mantlepiece. There are 251 books on the mantlepiece alone. In most respect it is too many books. I'm an unhealthy man in his early 50s. I'm unlikely to read all of the books in this room before I die, let alone buying more books. Books are my comfort. Both as objects and actual content. Perhaps they are a crutch. They are certainly what I spend most of my money on. They are memories and dreams, hopes and fears. They bring me joy and they make me cry. They have provided me with a clogged up memory that is full of information that can only be bought out by pub quizzes it often seems.
That is why Linda Grant's book meant so much to me. It felt like reading my own memoir - but without actually being a writer. At least professionally.
It's a lovely little book. It's not on my shelf though. It is on my Kindle.
This is a short book. More of an extended essay. But I have never read anything which spoke to me as directly as this book. It is about books. It is about what they mean both as objects and as the repositories of text.
Linda Grant is moving house and has to 'murder her library'. This is a process I have undertaken myself. When I moved to my new room from the house I lived in I gave away twenty-five boxes of books to a second hand bookshop that would take them. It still hurts. I still have hundreds, possibly thousands, of books here in the room I now live. Every shelf, cupboard and surface has books on it. The mantlepiece has books on it. Three rows of books piled on top of each other buttressed by two columns of books to stop them falling off the edge of the mantlepiece. There are 251 books on the mantlepiece alone. In most respect it is too many books. I'm an unhealthy man in his early 50s. I'm unlikely to read all of the books in this room before I die, let alone buying more books. Books are my comfort. Both as objects and actual content. Perhaps they are a crutch. They are certainly what I spend most of my money on. They are memories and dreams, hopes and fears. They bring me joy and they make me cry. They have provided me with a clogged up memory that is full of information that can only be bought out by pub quizzes it often seems.
That is why Linda Grant's book meant so much to me. It felt like reading my own memoir - but without actually being a writer. At least professionally.
It's a lovely little book. It's not on my shelf though. It is on my Kindle.
Linda Grant is moving house and has to 'murder her library'. This is a process I have undertaken myself. When I moved to my new room from the house I lived in I gave away twenty-five boxes of books to a second hand bookshop that would take them. It still hurts. I still have hundreds, possibly thousands, of books here in the room I now live. Every shelf, cupboard and surface has books on it. The mantlepiece has books on it. Three rows of books piled on top of each other buttressed by two columns of books to stop them falling off the edge of the mantlepiece. There are 251 books on the mantlepiece alone. In most respect it is too many books. I'm an unhealthy man in his early 50s. I'm unlikely to read all of the books in this room before I die, let alone buying more books. Books are my comfort. Both as objects and actual content. Perhaps they are a crutch. They are certainly what I spend most of my money on. They are memories and dreams, hopes and fears. They bring me joy and they make me cry. They have provided me with a clogged up memory that is full of information that can only be bought out by pub quizzes it often seems.
That is why Linda Grant's book meant so much to me. It felt like reading my own memoir - but without actually being a writer. At least professionally.
It's a lovely little book. It's not on my shelf though. It is on my Kindle.
A great little book. Linda Grant writes of the challenges she faced in reducing her personal library when downsizing her living accommodation. A heartbreaking task which I could relate to having just moved house myself. A great read for a bookworm.
I really enjoyed this Kindle Short. I think one reason I decided to build my library digitally is it avoids the painful choices the author made when having to downsize her library to accommodate the limited space in her new flat.
As a librarian and book lover, I could certainly relate to the author's feelings about culling her collection. I have a serious book addiction and have found it necessary to select and divest several times in my life.
Last week I learned a new Japanese word, "tsundoku", books that are purchased and unread, piling up on shelves and tables and becoming part of the landscape. My books are part of my persona and I believe you can know a person by their shelves, just as you can know a person by their garden (or lack thereof).
The author talks about how in modern culture books are no longer seen as decorating a room, but are even a liability when trying to sell a home.
That said, I sometimes wonder what I would need to do (prison, serious illness) to devote myself to reading all my wonderful books, instead of just feeling their presence in the room. There just is not enough time- and someone is always writing more.
A most interesting short read.
Last week I learned a new Japanese word, "tsundoku", books that are purchased and unread, piling up on shelves and tables and becoming part of the landscape. My books are part of my persona and I believe you can know a person by their shelves, just as you can know a person by their garden (or lack thereof).
The author talks about how in modern culture books are no longer seen as decorating a room, but are even a liability when trying to sell a home.
That said, I sometimes wonder what I would need to do (prison, serious illness) to devote myself to reading all my wonderful books, instead of just feeling their presence in the room. There just is not enough time- and someone is always writing more.
A most interesting short read.
In this essay that looks at the love of books and the absurdity of keeping too many books, Linda Grant reflects on her journey as a reader - collecting books, stealing books, hoarding books, and then finally getting rid of most of them. She says "I would be ashamed of a book whose spine was not broken." You cannot live without books but they also become a burden if you want to move to another place. You like the convenience of a Kindle but you feel something is always lacking. This is a dilemma which is faced by most of the bibliophiles. You start with a handful of books, one shelf at a time and the shelves keep multiplying as if the 'books are breeding.' What happens though if you finally run out of space?
Grant tries to cover a lot ground in this short essay from decline of the book to the rise of technology, the disappearance of the bookstores to the proliferation of ebooks, her reading and writing habits, and how she stores her books. Giving away or reselling books is not as easy as it looks, most of the books given away are pulped. In the end, it is up to us readers to decide what is the value of a book to us. While getting rid of her books, the author says, "I threw one box in the recycling bin. I’m going to hell, a hell in which eternity is a Kindle with a dead battery."
Grant tries to cover a lot ground in this short essay from decline of the book to the rise of technology, the disappearance of the bookstores to the proliferation of ebooks, her reading and writing habits, and how she stores her books. Giving away or reselling books is not as easy as it looks, most of the books given away are pulped. In the end, it is up to us readers to decide what is the value of a book to us. While getting rid of her books, the author says, "I threw one box in the recycling bin. I’m going to hell, a hell in which eternity is a Kindle with a dead battery."
Linda Grant confessed that she had murdered her library. I admit to not liking her book as much as I’ve expected.
I adore books about reading. My favourite ones are [b: Howards End Is on the Landing|6657509|Howards End Is on the Landing A Year of Reading from Home|Susan Hill|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1347764026s/6657509.jpg|6852149] by Susan Hill, [b: Ex Libris|480712|Ex-Libris|Ross King|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1347422149s/480712.jpg|1856314] by Anne Fadiman and [b: 84, Charing Cross Road|368916|84, Charing Cross Road|Helene Hanff|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1287338794s/368916.jpg|938626] by Helene Hanff. Unfortunately, ‘I murdered My Library’ lacks their charm. On the other hand, I appreciate Linda Grant’s honesty. Her musings are very personal. She even confesses to stealing books: ‘I stole books for quite a long time – three or four years. I stole them because I wanted them. I wanted books in a junkie kind of way’.
What was the motive for murder mentioned in the title? Linda Grant wanted to sell her flat and it turned out that according to estate agents books are a big no-no, because they 'make rooms look messy’ and they are ’too personal as objects to be displayed’. Sounds like a heresy, doesn’t it? Grant followed the estate agents' advice and now feels bad about it. No wonder. She’d been building her library for more than 50 years and got rid of at least half of it.
Despite my reservations, 'I Murdered My Library' is a feast for book lovers. Maybe a diet feast compared to books mentioned above, but anyway. I felt at home reading about Grant's love for literature, collecting books, bookshops, inspecting bookshelves in friends’ houses, compulsive shopping for books, intense relationship with books. So many things sound familiar! I enjoyed Linda Grant's witty musings about literature and life, topped with sprinkles of slightly bitter sense of humour.
Two things bothered me while reading 'I Murdered My Library'. I didn’t like the passage which looks like a love letter to Kindle and Amazon, emphasizing how better Kindle is compared to other e-reader, specific name included. It sounded like a commercial. The other thing that made me feel awkward was an unjust generalization: ‘The next generation don’t want old books – they don’t seem to want books at all.’ Linda Grant should definitely have a look at Goodreads from time to time. Or come to my school and see teenagers reading for pleasure during breaks. Or come to Warsaw Book Fair and survive a stampede of crowds.
It’s such a tiny booklet, that summarizing it would kill your reading pleasure. No more killing, the murder committed by Linda Grant is enough. If you can relate to her vision of hell as a place 'in which eternity is a Kindle with a dead battery' and her confession 'Reading wasn't my religion - it was my oxygen', and if you wish to know the answers to questions like:
What do some writers bury in their gardens?
What novel did Linda Grant get from her ex-boyfriend as a breaking-up present?
Which books survived the genocide?
Who are her favourite authors?
... just indulge in ‘I Murdered My Library’.
I adore books about reading. My favourite ones are [b: Howards End Is on the Landing|6657509|Howards End Is on the Landing A Year of Reading from Home|Susan Hill|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1347764026s/6657509.jpg|6852149] by Susan Hill, [b: Ex Libris|480712|Ex-Libris|Ross King|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1347422149s/480712.jpg|1856314] by Anne Fadiman and [b: 84, Charing Cross Road|368916|84, Charing Cross Road|Helene Hanff|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1287338794s/368916.jpg|938626] by Helene Hanff. Unfortunately, ‘I murdered My Library’ lacks their charm. On the other hand, I appreciate Linda Grant’s honesty. Her musings are very personal. She even confesses to stealing books: ‘I stole books for quite a long time – three or four years. I stole them because I wanted them. I wanted books in a junkie kind of way’.
What was the motive for murder mentioned in the title? Linda Grant wanted to sell her flat and it turned out that according to estate agents books are a big no-no, because they 'make rooms look messy’ and they are ’too personal as objects to be displayed’. Sounds like a heresy, doesn’t it? Grant followed the estate agents' advice and now feels bad about it. No wonder. She’d been building her library for more than 50 years and got rid of at least half of it.
Despite my reservations, 'I Murdered My Library' is a feast for book lovers. Maybe a diet feast compared to books mentioned above, but anyway. I felt at home reading about Grant's love for literature, collecting books, bookshops, inspecting bookshelves in friends’ houses, compulsive shopping for books, intense relationship with books. So many things sound familiar! I enjoyed Linda Grant's witty musings about literature and life, topped with sprinkles of slightly bitter sense of humour.
Two things bothered me while reading 'I Murdered My Library'. I didn’t like the passage which looks like a love letter to Kindle and Amazon, emphasizing how better Kindle is compared to other e-reader, specific name included. It sounded like a commercial. The other thing that made me feel awkward was an unjust generalization: ‘The next generation don’t want old books – they don’t seem to want books at all.’ Linda Grant should definitely have a look at Goodreads from time to time. Or come to my school and see teenagers reading for pleasure during breaks. Or come to Warsaw Book Fair and survive a stampede of crowds.
It’s such a tiny booklet, that summarizing it would kill your reading pleasure. No more killing, the murder committed by Linda Grant is enough. If you can relate to her vision of hell as a place 'in which eternity is a Kindle with a dead battery' and her confession 'Reading wasn't my religion - it was my oxygen', and if you wish to know the answers to questions like:
What do some writers bury in their gardens?
What novel did Linda Grant get from her ex-boyfriend as a breaking-up present?
Which books survived the genocide?
Who are her favourite authors?
... just indulge in ‘I Murdered My Library’.