This is a house full of books. I’ve been saying lately that I want to chip away at my shelves and select my life: live just with the books I’ll read again and again, and avoid the collection and clutter of pages and spines. I’m double-thinking that now, though; just asking, why do I want to limit my collection, and what do I like about a house with so many books, and is my collection the same as or different from this one in some essential way, and how can I go from here in how I think about and collect books and knowledge?
Really, my book collection will look a lot like this one someday. When I am in my fifties and sixties, I will have tons of books on modernism, on theology, and of modernist and modernist-sensibility literatures, analogous to this house of mid-century European film and literature and photography. Our sensibilities are quite well matched. It is, as Ada said of my parents’ house, the right kind of home: properly lived-in.