There are all sorts of degrees of books, all sorts of reasons for keeping or getting rid of them.

I’ve been doing quite a bit of book purging the last few weeks. Some of the books were those I’d been holding in reserve to lend to a book sharing acquaintance. That relationship has gone south somewhat and I just couldn’t see cluttering up my limited space with books that should have gone into the Recycle bags months ago, ones I had no particularly affinity for keeping. Not necessarily bad books—some I enjoyed quite well—but ones I was fairly certain I’d never read again and had no desire to hang onto.

Others came from my Read-But-Not-Ready-To-Get-Rid-Of bookcase. These resonated with me strongly enough that I couldn’t decide yet if they would become part of the permanent collection or get passed on. Some wait in limbo for years before I make up my mind. I also have The Permanent Collection bookcases and the scandalously large To Be Read bookcases (note the plural). But I’ve begun to face up to the reality of a few things. Namely, that I am not reading books as quickly as I once did.

I used to think I was a fast reader, but I realized sometime past that compared to a number of book lovers on the internet I’m a tortoise. I used to get through between 40 and 50 books a year. Not a blistering pace compared with some of those bookophiles of my acquaintance, but considering that I’m always reading several books at once, not a bad total. Now that my days are so chock full of Things To Do, I’m lucky to get any reading time at all. It takes me about a month to finish an average-length novel, longer still if it’s a behemoth. I’m close to finishing a couple of those several I’m reading, both nonfiction, which takes me considerably longer than a month to get through. So I’m closing in, but not there yet. It could be a few more months…

I may not clear even a third of my old finished total this year.

So I’ve begun eyeing the books in my various bookshelves, with their sundry “keeping codes,” in a different light, asking myself this simple question, “Do you think you’ll get around to reading/rereading this one in this lifetime?” The answer is often a regretful, “No.” Even for some of them in the TBR pile. As interesting as these books are, as primed as I was at the time of buying them or finishing them, I doubt I’ll get to them. Life is shortening up every day, time is a precious commodity, and my living space is over-full. Getting rid of books, albeit regretfully, is one thing I have some control over. If I find somewhere down the line that I really did want to read/reread something, there’s a thriving used book market I can take advantage of.

Yes, I know e-books would solve some of this. Wish I enjoyed reading digitally.

I’m still acquiring new books, though not at the obscene pace I once collected them. Space has to be found in the TBR bookcases. Out with the old, to the benefit of the Venice library. In with the new. Until they become old and I have to ask myself that sad question about them, too.

Nil desperandum. Spero melior.