After a certain point, bookshelves become a nuisance. It’s all very well to have one at home to house a small, treasured collection of volumes. The problem arises when the books start to multiply. At first, you make do: new books can be squeezed into existing spaces, even if it means turning the bookshelf into a literary sardine can. Other volumes can be placed on tables and cabinets beside beds and elsewhere.
This is when the real issues begin. More books accumulate by a mysterious process of proliferation. There’s no getting away from it: you need another bookshelf, or two or three. Sometimes, carpenters are pressed into service; at others, global home furnishing retailers are happy to provide. You can hardly see your walls anymore, but it’s worth it. Or so you think.
Time passes, and you find yourself pushing the existing books towards the back of the shelves to create double rows. You stack books on top of books, and you stack more on top of the shelves themselves so that piles almost reach the ceiling. All the joys of Tetris, but in real life.
Late at night, you wonder if the bookshelves can hold the extra weight and when you sit up in bed, you’re almost sure that you can see them sag in the moonlight. You think gloomily of the fate of Leonard Bast from E.M. Forster’s Howards End who met his own end after being crushed under a toppling bookcase.
You soon realize that organizing your books has become impossible. Whatever small stabs you make towards this end come to naught because of the compulsions of squeezing in books wherever they fit, not to mention forgetting about those in the back which you cannot see. At times, you need a book that you’re sure you own but cannot find, so you buy it again, which only makes the problem worse.
You blame the bookshelves. It must be their fault, and certainly nothing to do with the number of books. After all, it’s a given that new books will show up. That’s an iron rule and trying to prevent it would be like trying to defy gravity or flout some other immutable law of the universe. As King Canute realized, some actions are futile.
At times, you muster up the courage to extricate a book from one of the back rows, only to find the pages foxed and the cover faded. You cast an accusing glance at the bookshelf, but it remains mute. You pat the book reassuringly and try to carefully put it back, only to find that there’s now no place for it. How can this be, you mutter to yourself: there was space just minutes ago when you took it out. It must be the bookshelf revealing its malevolent nature yet again.
What choice do you have? By now, you’re dependent on the evil wooden structures. Some shelves in your cupboard are already full, with books nestling against shirts and socks. There are even small piles of books on the floor, which give rise to other problems, not the least of which is the creation of an obstacle course. Trying to make your books and your bookshelves get along is like negotiating an impossible transatlantic treaty, and you feel like a peevish diplomat who’s been denied breakfast.
You resolve to turn to e-books en masse. Virtually everything you need on a hand-held device – bring it on. You quickly get used to reading on a backlit screen, and your online collection grows rapidly. This is wonderful, you think. Should have done it a long time ago. The packed bookshelves glower at you, and you turn your back to them. But the addiction is in your blood. The pull of print cannot be resisted for long.
One morning, you wake to find that there’s a fresh pile of books to be shelved. Where has it come from? Could it be that you visited a bookshop last evening? You will not confirm or deny this accusation, but you admit that it’s a distinct possibility.
New volumes in hand, you step gingerly and hopefully towards the bookshelves. Some of the new books can be slotted horizontally, others vertically, and the rest any which way. The bookshelves greet you with a Sisyphean sigh, but you persist. Finally, you stumble back with a sense of victory, even though you’re aware that it’s a short-lived triumph. This battle against the bookshelves cannot be won.
Borges famously said that he always imagined that Paradise would be a kind of library. You agree with this sentiment, as long as it’s not a home library.
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