Day 130: I'm an Intellectual, Haven't you Seen my Books?

I have an unnatural attachment to my books. There is something about the smell of the printed page, the glue holding the binding together, the texture of the book cover. I don’t often borrow books and I never utilize the library or electronic readers. I must own the books I read, an insistence that has caused quite a stockpile over the years. Now, as I try to Fall clean my condo I find myself with two boxes of books I no longer want, but I feel like I still need them. We all make hard choices in our lives, mine was to analyze why I felt I needed books I may never read again.

Over the years, and during the course of many moves across four states I have lost books. I never noticed at the time, but in the unpacking and reorganizing on my shelves I realized the sudden absence of Plath’s The Bell Jar or Hunter Thompson’s The Rum Diary. Somewhere, remnants of my life are scattered about without my consent. I’ve always been aware that my books are a big part of who I am. It is only now, as I begin to examine my somewhat neurotic book fetish, that I am starting to discover why. Books are a security blanket. Much like big hair distracts from aging skin or big boobs blur recognition of a few extra pounds, my books pad my insecurity about my intelligence. I read, therefore I’m smart. The books are intended to convey that I am smart despite my lack of career or advanced degree.

I get a personal satisfaction from seeing my books displayed and I hate that I’ve run out of room and many are still boxed up. The addition of my brilliant and well-read husband’s collection of mostly non-fiction reassures me all the more. I read his books too and periodically go back to reread certain titles of my collection. Having the books I own staring back at me provides a comforting security blanket. I like the way they look on the shelves and I like knowing I can write in the margins or dog ear the pages. Sometimes, I just look over the titles and soak in the fact that I’ve read them all or rearrange them to best display those titles that are most advantageous to me should someone come over and notice them.

I have a first edition Hemingway, a birthday gift from my husband, that I long to read, but keep in a glass enclosed bookcase to protect it instead. In a way, this one book encapsulates everything I love and fear. It is wisdom and accomplishment, but if you cannot see it, how will you know it exists? That book sits proudly in its case begging to be read, begging to be seen and admired, begging to not be forgotten. If I were to simply read it and stash it on the back of a shelf somewhere would it lose any of its value? Would it cease to be a first edition Hemingway? Maybe not, but if something is valuable we display it in a place of honor and hold it in high esteem.

I cannot display my intelligence or untapped employment skills, so I boost those up a bit with a physical recognition of my smarts. Yes, I read. I read a lot and mostly things I am proud to display. Maybe one day I will be able to get my graduate degree or find a career that suits me or perhaps I will learn to be comfortable enough with myself to not need both the French and English versions of L’Etranger. Until then, you should know that I have them and I’ve read them both.