The Eternal Question: How Many Books is Too Many Books?
Books, books, and more books. If left to my own devices, I’ll buy more books than I could ever read in this lifetime. I wholeheartedly agree with the enabler’s creed that reading books and buying books are two different hobbies. No matter the health of my reading life, my buying life is always robust and thriving. Some might say that’s a problem. I wouldn’t listen to them, but I’m aware they might be saying it.
I was struck by two different book-owning stories that crossed my path this week.
One, from the New York Times, told of one man’s struggle to own his books and not run afoul of his landlord. The other, from LitHub, gave some words of wisdom for downsizing and culling a physical book collection.
The Times story did have me considering the slippery slope of this book-buying life I’m championing. A New York man had amassed some 10,000 books in his tiny NYC apartment, and perhaps unsurprisingly, drew the ire of the landlords. The complaint was not an attack on the concept of book-owning; it was, ostensibly, rooted in safety. That many books raises the risk of fire hazard, which seems legit. And when he didn’t heed the warnings, the landlords began eviction proceedings.
The extreme case is enough to make me pause and consider my own habits. I think a reasonable person could read the story and conclude the man suffered from the same impulse that afflicted the subjects of Hoarders. And I don’t know that I could say they’d be wrong.
Does it change my estimation of him that he seemed to be a genuinely engaged reader who came to many of his books to further a life as an academic? A little bit. Does it matter that his life seemed well adjusted and full of intelligent, bookish friends with whom he could discuss what he’d read? Also yes.
But the sheer amount of books does feel a bit extreme. I couldn’t say where that extremity starts though. I don’t know how many books I have in my house (other than “a lot”), but I’m sure the number feels a lot bigger than it actually is. I’m quite certain it would pale in comparison to 10,000. I tried seriously to ballpark the number of books at my two favorite local indie bookstores, and I’m not sure even they reach 10,000 books. If a person has more books in their home than a bookstore, does that not scream of something amiss? Do I only judge it because of the nature of his home (a 600-square-foot studio apartment) and not some mansion with a Beauty-and-the-Beast-style library? Eh. Maybe.
I’m torn because I love the idea of it more than, I’m sure, I’d ever love the reality of it. To say “The landlord does kinda have a point there,” feels wrong; it feels opposed to an otherwise desirable hobby. I think I surprised myself by how conflicted I felt by reading the story. When I saw its headline and blurb, I thought I’d easily side with this man’s quest to bury himself in books. Reading about it and glimpsing a slice of his reality made me rethink my blind allegiance to the hobby.
What lies at the heart of my book-buying hobby? Is it simply the prerequisite for my book-reading hobby, as in, “Well, I can’t read it unless I’ve first bought it?” Though I might wish for such an easy explanation, the existence of 1) a robust and thriving public library, 2) the e-book options made possible by same (and the requisite e-reader on which to consume them), and 3) the unread among the books I already own would suggest that’s bullshit. Of course I don’t need to buy a new book to have something to read. At least not for a very long time.
Do I desperately want to support authors? There’s likely some truth to this, but based on my undying love for used bookstores, I can’t pretend it’s the overwhelming motivator. (Though, I suppose this could be reframed for a desire to support bookstores, which also rings true.)
Is it rank consumerism, then? Just an inability to stop buying things (and the perceived acceptability of this particular purchase)? Ahh, we might be getting to the root of the thing. It does scratch some never-ceasing itch. It is a (possibly unhealthy) coping mechanism to deal with everything. I think books are better than other possibilities, which begs the question “Well, why do you think that?”
I think it’s because a book bought is a snapshot of a version of myself that I’m confident I will find appealing at some point in the future (assuming I don’t return home and immediately start reading my new book). A dumb-but-relatable version of this could be the feeling I get when I look at my likes/shares on Bluesky (and once upon a time ago, Twitter): I often lose myself and marvel at how often — and with such a high percentage — I laugh at the things I took the time to like/share already. It’s this reminder of, “Oh, no shit; of course you like it because you liked it before.” So too with books. A back-cover description that gripped me two weeks ago, two months ago, two years ago can and will still speak to me, whenever I return to the book. I still may not feel like the right time to engage with the book — not in the right headspace, mood, etc. — but I catch a glimpse of that former me and am reminded of what spoke to me in that moment. Maybe things have changed, but I recognize myself: the person who was interested, the person who wanted to read it for this reason or that. It’s hard for me to be too finger-waggy at myself when that’s the case.
On the other side of the ledger was Maris Kreizman’s description in LitHub of a forced move (due to flooding) to a smaller NYC apartment, and as part of the move, she felt it was necessary to cull her book collection.
Maris Kreizman
The story is just a collection of lessons learned about the process. Some are more helpful than others. For example, she says that it’s time to stop trying to curate bookshelves to impress people who might one day visit. Another reckons with the fact that there’s no need to be a completist. Some were more specific to her very New York, very book-world-adjacent existence: “When friends come over, their books must be on display.” (Such a cool sentence that has zero applicability to my own life.)
But I loved the end of her list of lessons the most. Second-to-last entry: “There will always be more books.” She ends the lesson’s blurb with “And isn’t that great?”
The final is perhaps the most practical: “Tip your movers well.”
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