I come from a long line of hoarders and bibliophiles. Well,
at least four that I know, going back to my great-grandmother, Oma Ans, one of
whose books is currently in my suitcase.
A love of collecting things and a love of books is a poor
combination, particularly when it runs through all three generations of women
attempted to downsize a book collection. I know this because over the summer we spent
the best part of a week, trying to decide what to do with my Grandmother’s
personal library, since she’s moving into a much smaller place. This has been
moderately successful, although personally I’ve stolen a large collection of
assorted books, and there are piles that are to be given to so and so, who has
an interest in photography, and another friend who once wrote a dissertation on
luxury fashion brands.
It’s actually kind of sad to be throwing away these books,
when I say throwing away, I think actually a book collector is coming to look
at which ones are valuable and can be sold and then the rest are being given to
charity or whatever. All the books have either my great-grandmother, my
grandmother or my grandfather’s name in, the person who gave it to them and
when, and then some of them say things like “Summer holiday in Crete, 1973” or
whatever in them. It’s weirdly interesting to see.
My dorkishness never ceases to amaze me.
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