Book case

I’ve just had new bookshelves put up in the hall, a whole wall-full of them, and for the first time in years, books that have been forgotten are finding a home. There are far more books than there is shelf space, so I’ve had to select which ones to display, and I’ve discovered a surprising amount about myself. Anyone coming into the flat will see them and make judgments on my literary tastes and so most of my new library is pretty erudite stuff. Martin Amis is getting a good show. The chick lit is banished to the spare room.

But that’s not even the start of it. I am in possession of quite a number of books that I loathe, but that make me look well read. Many (lucky) people will not have heard of Politics by Adam Thirlwell, but those who have will know it was a moderate succès de scandale when it was published and will be impressed not only by the breadth of my intellectual interests but will gather they have gone back for years. And so yes, Politics has made the cut while the hugely entertaining Sam Jones detective series by Lauren Henderson is sharing shelf space with one of the Shopaholic books, well out of sight. So there you have it. I am both fickle and hypocritical, even when it comes to my own books.

Oh, and I’m a snob, too. I used to possess the complete works of Jane Austen: the local charity shop now harbours them on the grounds that my leather-stamped edition was a bit naff. They will be replaced with something that looks more erudite. And on the subject of the charity shop, it has brought out a cruel streak.