So out some stuff goes — including boxes and boxes of books. It feels wrong to get rid of books. It feels as though I’m shaving points off my IQ, such as it is. You’re supposed to keep books. You’re supposed to end your days surrounded with stacks and stacks of books, your rich old friends with whom you have spent so many golden hours. Well, most of the books hail from college era, and I really don’t need to keep my German post-war lit paperbacks, especially since most are from leftist authors with a grudging sympathy for the heaven on the other side of the wall. (The wall’s worst sin, if I remember, was aesthetic; its second fault, metaphysical.) Out. Ah: a collection of Tom Sharpe novels. He was a brilliant nasty British comic author who got a big push in the States in the early 80s. It didn’t work. Horrible cartoony covers. They stay. Someday I’ll read them again. The Hite Report: the world’s only Tolstoi-length Penthouse Forum letter. Out. Ah: all my Flashman novels, with the pages coming out. These I keep until they’re reissued. They were un-PC before there was such a thing as PC. I can quote from few novels, really, but I can always remember that line from the first book, in which Flashy recounts his cumulative sexual exploits: I have laid enough cane to build a banister around Hyde Park. Ah: here’s a box of books whose pages have all fused together. Whew. Out.
James Lileks, Bleat, 2004-07-06.
