A few months before my 22nd birthday in April, I jokingly posted on my Instagram story, “If I don’t see 22 books on my 22nd birthday, it’s going to be so over.” Friends from all over the country sent me books they thought I would like to read or the ones they wanted me to read. I got more books than the 22 I had demanded—over 30, in fact. I’ve been getting through them slowly. Each book feels like a heart in my hands. The rest, lying in my cupboard, are my most valuable possessions.
It’s easy to judge people for stocking their homes and bookshelves with books you know they’ll never read. Last year, ‘bookshelf wealth’ dominated home decor trends, coinciding with the rise of performance culture. Many people buy books to seem smart, to display them on their shelves as proof of intellect, hoping and praying that no guest will ever be curious—or intrigued enough—to start a conversation about one. Maybe the spines of these books will be cracked someday. Maybe they won’t. Does that make an eager collector less deserving of the books in their possession than a dyed-in-the-wool reader?
To readers, books are sirens—alluring creatures that call out to the heart. Have you never experienced that moment of wonder and magic when a book hypnotises you from the other end of the store? Has a book never caught your eye in the hands of a seller at the traffic signal or in a pile at the Scholastic Book Fair? Maybe we need to start looking at books as art, to be hung up on walls like paintings or splendidly displayed like sculptures. Books like R. F. Kuang’s Yellowface and Anita Desai’s Rosarita, with covers that look like arthouse film posters and feature oil paintings, are for the discerning collector as much as they are for the dedicated reader.
I think if we’re going to be materialistic and consumerist, it might as well be about books. I’ve bought books because I saw a reel about them, because I read a quote from them on the internet, because I opened them in the bookstore and liked what I read on the page, because everybody else was reading them, because nobody else had heard of them, because they smelled nice, or simply because I liked the cover. My house is full of books—thrifted, passed around by friends and family, gifted, inherited, found and borrowed.
Of course, I can’t read all the books I buy immediately. Sometimes, life gets in the way. Sometimes, the book is too difficult to understand at that specific moment, or the subject matter is too heavy. I have stacks of unread books that I just needed to have from over the years. The Japanese have a word for this phenomenon: tsundoku. It is “the practice of buying a lot of books and keeping them in a pile because you intend to read them but have not done so yet.” Tsundoku does not stem from neglect or performance—it is an act of faith, a decision made for the imagined future self armed with the time and readiness required to read that certain book.
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