In my previous post, I stated that I admired the idea of books, what they are, and what they represent, both intellectually and personally.
Books are the carriers of civilisation. Without them, history would vanish, science would be crippled, and human thought would be ignored…
This is still true, but…
Despite my walls of books recording human effort, and my own passage through life, I need more space.
I already noted that time is finite, and my attention is finite. That has not changed. If anything I have less time, and my attention span is increasingly “fluid”.
Perhaps this is my personal definition of spacetime, I need more space, but have less time.
What has changed is that, after receiving several hundred books, old and new, and adding another 5 metres of shelving, I still have to cull again my collection.
As I stated before, my admiration for one or other book doesn’t give it the right to occupy space in my home. I brought these books into my life, now the question is which still belong?
The real challenge now is to decide which books now still deserve space on my shelves, in my life, and in my future?
The Test of Time
One of my arguments for keeping certain dictionaries and encyclopaedias was that they might still prove useful. A specialist dictionary could offer more depth than a quick internet search. An old encyclopaedia might provide a valuable historical perspective. A substantial reference work might contain information difficult to find elsewhere.
These arguments were not entirely unreasonable. But they were largely theoretical.
Over the intervening months, I have spent a great deal of time examining and researching books in my collection. I have investigated authors, publishers, editions, translations, illustrations, bindings and publication histories. I have consulted library catalogues, bibliographical databases, digitised historical works and specialist studies.
And how often have I actually taken one of my old dictionaries or encyclopaedias off the shelf to help with this work?
Never.
This is perhaps the most important change since my earlier article. I no longer need to speculate about whether I might use these books. I have had an opportunity to test the proposition, and the evidence is not encouraging.
Of course, digital information has its own limitations. Online sources can be inaccurate, incomplete or misleading. Artificial intelligence can be particularly convincing when it is wrong. Serious research still requires verification, preferably against authoritative bibliographical records and original publications.
But owning a large collection of general reference books does not necessarily solve those problems. In most cases, access to a specialised library catalogue or a digitised original is more valuable than another dictionary on my shelves.
Five More Metres Was Not a Solution
The additional shelving has exposed another weakness in my thinking.
I had treated the shortage of space primarily as a physical problem. If I could accommodate the books more efficiently, perhaps I could avoid making quite so many difficult decisions.
But additional shelves have a remarkable tendency to fill themselves.
Five metres sounds substantial. Depending on the size and thickness of the volumes, it can accommodate hundreds of books. Yet the fundamental problem remains unchanged, my collection continues to compete for a finite amount of space.
And there is a difference between finding somewhere to put a book and giving it a proper place in a library.
I want my books to be accessible, sensibly arranged and sufficiently well spaced to be removed without damaging their bindings. I want to be able to see what I own, find what interests me and enjoy the collection as a whole.
A library should not become a storage facility for books that I cannot quite bring myself to discard.
Looking at My Books More Critically
There has been another development since my earlier article.
I have begun a much more systematic examination of my library, particularly its older books. Rather than deciding whether to retain a volume on the basis of its title, appearance or general subject, I have been looking more closely at what it actually represents.
Who wrote it, and why? When was it first published? Is my copy a first edition, a later revision, a translation or a reprint? Does it contain original scholarship or simply reproduce information available in many other works? Are its illustrations distinctive? Does it contribute something important to the subjects that interest me?
Sometimes the results have been surprising.
A rather unpromising volume can turn out to be an interesting witness to the intellectual or artistic concerns of its period. Conversely, an imposing and beautifully produced book can prove to contain little beyond a superficial overview of an enormous subject.
Age, size and attractive bindings are not reliable measures of intellectual value.
Nor is a book necessarily worth keeping simply because it is rare, or because somebody once paid a considerable sum for it.
I am increasingly interested in what a book contributes to my collection, rather than what it might be worth in isolation.
This is particularly relevant to my books on history, art, architecture, ceramics and the history of science. There is no shortage of publications covering these subjects, but considerable variation in their originality, authority and depth.
For example, how many general histories of Western painting do I really need? A broad survey may provide a useful introduction, but a carefully researched study of a particular artist, period or artistic movement may offer far more lasting value.
The same principle applies elsewhere. A collection does not necessarily improve simply because it becomes larger.
Historical Value Is Not Reason Enough to Keep A Book
In my earlier post, I considered two substantial encyclopaedias. Monique’s Nouveau Larousse Illustré, published at the beginning of the 20th century, and my own nine-volume Harmsworth’s Universal Encyclopaedia.
Both are interesting examples of the ambition to make an enormous body of human knowledge available to the educated public. Both reflect the intellectual assumptions, priorities and limitations of their period.
But their place in my library is not equivalent.
Monique’s Larousse has a history that goes far beyond its contents. It was part of her life before we met, and it remains part of our shared history. Its presence needs no elaborate justification.
The Harmsworth is different. I bought it largely because I thought it would make an interesting British companion to the French Larousse.
And it did. But is that now sufficient?
The set occupies a considerable amount of shelf space. Sitting on a top shelf I have never consulted it, and much of its historical interest can be explored through other sources.
I had to say goodbye, because I can no longer argue that it deserves to stay simply because it is an interesting old encyclopaedia.
This distinction may be uncomfortable, but it is important.
A book can be historically significant without being essential to my personal library.
I am not running a national library, a museum or an archive. I cannot, and need not, preserve everything that deserves preservation somewhere.
The Problem of Sentiment
Sentiment remains the most difficult consideration.
In my original article, I described several dictionaries that I retained not for their practical value, but for their associations with particular periods of my life.
My Palazzi Italian dictionary recalls my move to Italy in 1974. My Shorter Oxford English Dictionary is associated with joining the European Commission. Another dictionary carries a family dedication that makes it far more important to me than its contents would suggest.
I do not regret keeping these books.
But sentiment also requires discrimination.
There is a considerable difference between a book that marks an important personal event and one that has simply followed me from house to house for decades.
Almost everything we own can acquire an association with the past. If that alone becomes a sufficient reason for keeping it, very little will ever leave.
I want to preserve the objects that genuinely matter, not every object that happens to remind me of something.
And perhaps there is another consideration. As the number of possessions carrying memories increases, the significance of the truly important ones can become obscured.
Keeping fewer may sometimes mean appreciating them more.
A Different Way of Judging a Book
My original post proposed several tests. Would the book be used again? Could it be replaced if needed? Did it possess historical or personal value? Could I justify the space it occupied?
I still think these are sensible questions, but what has changed is the weight I give to the answers.
Previously, one positive answer could be sufficient. A book might be historically interesting, or attractively bound, or potentially useful, and that could persuade me to keep it.
Now I am less convinced.
Almost every book has some merit. A well-produced book may be attractive, an old book may be historically interesting, and a reference work may contain information that could conceivably prove useful.
But these qualities are not necessarily enough.
The question must become comparative.
If I retain a substantial encyclopaedia that I never consult, what am I giving up? Perhaps space for several specialised works that I would genuinely enjoy reading. Perhaps room to organise an existing section more effectively. Perhaps simply the pleasure of shelves that are not packed to capacity.
This introduces a principle that was present, but insufficiently developed, in my earlier thinking.
Every book occupies space that could be used by another book.
It is not enough to establish that something has value. I must decide whether it has greater value to me than the alternatives.
And that judgement will inevitably change over time, as my interests evolve and the collection develops.
Towards a More Satisfying Library
The objective is not necessarily to own fewer books, but to build a more satisfying library.
I gain more satisfaction today from finding and reading an old book. One that spends more time developing ideas, albeit from the past, and yet still manages to conjure up a new way to look at the world. I like to understand a book’s pedigree, its history, and I also enjoy bringing it back to life with a timely restoration.
The truth is I now have enough space, but I have less time, so I would rather devote both to books that genuinely interest me.
From Judging Books to Allocating Space
Challenging long-established conventions about books and the written word inevitably means confronting a few sacred cows of literature.
We are inclined to regard books as individual expressions of intellectual achievement, objects deserving respect simply because they preserve knowledge, ideas and imagination. Some are time machines, connecting us with people, societies and ways of thinking that have long since disappeared. Their survival through generations seems, in itself, to justify their preservation.
But does it?
Consider Shakespeare. If one of his plays is a masterpiece, surely the complete works, annotated, illustrated and bound into a single magnificent volume, must be even more deserving of a place on my shelves.
Or must it?
I own just such a volume, containing 2,364 pages. It is difficult to imagine a less convenient way of reading a Shakespeare play. And the fact that it contains all his plays does not make me any more likely to read one.
The same question arises with a comprehensive 1,200-page history of European art. It may be an admirable scholarly achievement, but if I am interested in particular artists, periods and historical circumstances, why should its encyclopaedic coverage make it more valuable to me than a handful of focused studies?
Perhaps we have confused the intellectual importance of a work with the desirability of owning a particular edition of it.
There is a further problem with judging books individually. Even if I make sensible decisions about every volume, the resulting collection may still bear little relationship to my present interests.
Over the years, books accumulate for different reasons. Some were acquired for professional purposes, others for study, curiosity, pleasure or simply because an opportunity presented itself. The intellectual profile of the resulting library is therefore largely accidental.
Perhaps I should reverse the process. Rather than asking how much shelving is needed to accommodate the books I own, I should first decide how much space I wish to devote to the subjects that interest me.
History, science, art, architecture and other subjects need not receive equal allocations. Nor should the number of books already owned determine how much space a subject deserves.
This suggests allocating shelving in linear metres or centimetres, establishing a reasonable allowance for each subject, and then selecting the books that best justify occupying it. These allocations would be limits rather than targets, and could change as my interests develop.
The Importance of the Edition
The physical book provides an interesting and very practical challenge.
I have an illustrated Shakespeare containing 2,364 pages, a Conan Doyle of 1,202 pages and a Collins edition of Oscar Wilde running to 1,211 pages. All three contain important literature, but I cannot imagine taking down such enormous volumes simply to read a play or a short story.
And I won’t mention the practical challenges in reading Il Milione, all 8.2 kg of it.
I am not generally a reader of novels, and if I wanted to enjoy more fiction, I suspect I would increasingly choose audiobooks.
Yet I also have a two-volume Folio Society edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, bought by my uncle in 1959 for £7 2s 6d, and a two-volume Folio Society Decameron from 1954. Both are perfectly manageable books, all the better for being divided into two volumes. Their physical presence contributes to their appeal, while the Chaucer also has a particular family association.
At the other end of the spectrum are my four William Gibson paperbacks. They have no special pretensions as physical objects, but their treatment of technology and its relationship with society interests me.
These examples suggest that neither literary importance nor the quality of a binding is sufficient by itself. What matters is the relationship between the contents, the particular edition and my reasons for owning it.
A great work of literature does not automatically require a place in my library, while a modest paperback may thoroughly deserve one.
Making the Shelves Compete
The practical consequence is that a book should not be assessed only against an abstract standard of quality, but against the other books that might occupy the same space.
Keeping a large general survey of painting may mean sacrificing room for several far more readable specialised studies. Retaining an encyclopaedia that I never consult may prevent me from keeping books on the history of science that I find far more rewarding.
And an allocation of shelf space need not be completely filled. Some room for future acquisitions, easier handling and a more attractive arrangement is itself valuable.
This is not an argument for imposing a rigid mathematical formula on a personal collection. A book with exceptional historical importance, a particular family association or a genuinely distinctive edition may justify its space without being frequently read.
But exceptions should be conscious decisions rather than excuses for keeping everything.
The objective is to make the proportions of my library reflect the interests I have today, while leaving room for those I may develop tomorrow.
