book book box book
Mar. 8th, 2022 08:36 pmTwenty-nine bankers' boxes of books. Down from thirty-three when I moved into my first apartment.
This is roughly seventy-five shelf-feet, or four full-size Billys plus one-and-a-bit 2/3-width Billys. (The rest of the odd narrow one holds, or rather "held and shall hold again," DVDs and CDs.)
It's also one fewer book-boxes than I moved in here with, despite having added (per LibraryThing) not-quite-ninety books in those three-plus years. I don't really remember moving out all that many but I guess the cycle does keep on turning.
I am content to have books pass through my library: the good ones stay, the ones that aren't for me go on to someone else in whatever fashion. In high school I discovered the Book Rach in Twinbrook Shopping Centre, a miraculous place that would take my no-longer-reread paperbacks off my hands in exchange for new-to-me ones. That ethos has never really left me. Hang on tightly ... let go lightly. On rare occasions I regret letting something go (I think I'm probably ready for Jennifer Stevenson's Trash Sex Magic now, for instance) but then I can usually find it again.
The real question is whether the boardgames will fit back in the bankers' boxes whence they arrived, but that's a not-tonight problem.
Also I hate moving. Hate hate hate. I think I have made just about all the necessary arrangements (still need to schedule internet in the new place, and call the strata to reserve the elevator and parking out front, but other than that) and I still hate it. Grump.
This is roughly seventy-five shelf-feet, or four full-size Billys plus one-and-a-bit 2/3-width Billys. (The rest of the odd narrow one holds, or rather "held and shall hold again," DVDs and CDs.)
It's also one fewer book-boxes than I moved in here with, despite having added (per LibraryThing) not-quite-ninety books in those three-plus years. I don't really remember moving out all that many but I guess the cycle does keep on turning.
I am content to have books pass through my library: the good ones stay, the ones that aren't for me go on to someone else in whatever fashion. In high school I discovered the Book Rach in Twinbrook Shopping Centre, a miraculous place that would take my no-longer-reread paperbacks off my hands in exchange for new-to-me ones. That ethos has never really left me. Hang on tightly ... let go lightly. On rare occasions I regret letting something go (I think I'm probably ready for Jennifer Stevenson's Trash Sex Magic now, for instance) but then I can usually find it again.
The real question is whether the boardgames will fit back in the bankers' boxes whence they arrived, but that's a not-tonight problem.
Also I hate moving. Hate hate hate. I think I have made just about all the necessary arrangements (still need to schedule internet in the new place, and call the strata to reserve the elevator and parking out front, but other than that) and I still hate it. Grump.