I've been doing some cleaning. That in itself probably requires a whole post unto itself, but that's beside the point. But in the rush to throw things away, I had to do something I am loathe to do.
Over the years I have accumulated stacks and stacks and, dare I say, reams of books. History, geography, my old how to speak German and Russian books. Things I have read and kept because. . .. well, because they're MINE. I feel that is important. I value knowledge a great deal. And I suppose part of me believes that if I get rid of the books (or worse, throw them away) then part of me gets dumber and I'll find myself watching midday judge shows.
But when cleaning I found that I had 5 full bags of books to get rid of. Each one, oddly, has a certain memory. From the US and Canada geography book to "For whom the bell tolls," each one carries a memory. Will these memories disappear? No, but getting rid of the books is like saying goodbye to a friend forever. "Goodbye The War North of Rome, it was nice to have met you, but you need to go away now." Cruel to be sure. I've never thought of myself as cruel.
And so bag after bag I took downstairs. I put them near the trash. Maybe I don't have the heart to throw them out. Maybe someone will come and take them and enjoy them and read them through and let the knowledge continue. I doubt it, but perhaps.
So I say a fond farewell to these lovely things; these depositories of information.
(Until, of course, I rescue them and take them to the library. I'm such a softie.)
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