um. just had convo with mum about going down weekend after next to help sort stuff into 'no, never going to want' 'yes, I want that, please don't put in storage forever' and 'I will be coming back for that as soon as I've got stuff like shelving'.
She mentioned books. My family are rabid, rabid bookwhores. We have a total of one book with a scribble in it. On the flyleaf. In a corner where it's not noticeable. (which, I must smugly add, my *brother* did. I have never, ever profaned a book in my life.) Mention getting rid of *books* and the instant reaction of my family is to scream 'Heretic! Out of this house! NOW!!!!!'. We've managed to get rid of ... actually, I think we've only managed to get rid of some of the trash we buy to take on holiday. So of course my instant reaction to her even suggesting touching my books was to say 'Touch and DIE.'
Only I started thinking on the way back from Croydon of my collection of Sin City. And the special hardback edition of 300, all of which were bought for their immense pretty, and the hardboiled factor. (say what you like about Frank WHORESWHORESWHORES Miller, his graphic layout talent and eye for an arresting image is seriously unparalleled. Even if it is regularly actually disgusting.)
My tolerance for mr. Miller has gone down immensely in the last six or so months. So I'm wondering - should one get rid of them and just cherish the memories of the pretty, which if I'm really desperate, I can find online?
Because one thing I have learned over the last few years is that if the grain of doubt sets in, you're probably going to get rid of it at some point.
Opinions?
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