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A review by vikingwolf
I Murdered My Library by Linda Grant
4.0
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.