lorri giovinco-harte

I went into a used bookstore the other day and found a hardcover edition of a James Joyce anthology. It’s not like I haven’t read the stories in the collection; I fell in love with classic Irish authors well before I ever met a single person from Ireland. Still, the book is in excellent condition and this is Ireland, after all – don’t I need some Joyce?

The purchase got me thinking about why I buy books that I’ve already read. I’m probably not going to reread the stories (although I did feel the need to attempt Ulysses again on the plane ride over, but that’s the subject of an entirely different post). So why buy the book?

Back in the states, I owned a huge collection of books. My husband and I moved a few times after we married, and I had to listen to a great deal of hemming and hawing about having to pack up and transport the heavy cartons, but I just couldn’t part with any of them. It didn’t matter that I had read them all; they were a part of me, almost like family, and you certainly wouldn’t leave your family behind, would you?

Besides, I saved friends with older children lots of money. When my friend Amy’s daughter was in high school, I singlehandedly supplied her with four years worth of reading requirements. That has to be worth something, doesn’t it?

Dusting the collection was admittedly, a nightmare. There’s only so far a feather duster will go. Eventually, each book had to be taken out and cleaned individually.  That was always a bit of a pain. Still, it was worth it to see the titles proudly staring out at me wherever I lived.

When we moved to Ireland, I was forced to abandon my collection. I simply couldn’t justify paying to have them shipped overseas. A librarian friend tried to talk me through the process and gave me pep talks about purging, yet it still was difficult. I tried to make sure that they all found good homes, but it was still a tough parting for me.

So, now I find myself with a small collection of books I have been reading, but it simply isn’t enough. The shelves look sad and empty without the old, familiar titles. There’s something about seeing a book that you read ten years ago that just feels like home. They’re like family pictures or other momentos, snapshots of a different time and place.

Life without them seems so empty.