What we gain from keeping books – and why it doesn’t need to be ‘joy’

Books are not a reflection of our thoughts and values, because more often than not they reflect someone else’s, whether it is Lolita, Mrs Dalloway or Snoopy. Most of us don’t share the values of Adolf Hitler, but we may own many books about the second world war. The question of whether my books will be beneficial to my life moving forward requires a biblio-telepathy I do not possess. Our book collections record the narrative of expansion, diversion, regression, terror and yet-to-be-discovered possibilities of our reading life. This is why, on entering your living space, people immediately migrate to examine your bookshelves, rather than rummage in your cutlery or sock drawers.

I read in a variety of ways – ebooks, audiobooks – and never mind donating or sharing books. But I can’t imagine what a blank collection of physical books I’d be left with if they had to spark joy. (Goodbye Jelinek, Bernhard and Kafka, hello books with photos of hippo feet.) When I look at my shelves, I marvel at how random books have ended up beside each other. Some are on my shelf on the strength of just one line or a paragraph. Some are gifts, others I found discarded in the street. But every purchase of a book is a gesture of faith in the writer who wrote it. Writers are nothing without readers. Rather than following Kondo’s rules, I’d like to suggest another: it should be obligatory that all living spaces come with built-in bookshelves. (And a hammock.)