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Book LiberationDecember 13, 2005 The real joy of cleaning is getting rid of stuff. Another (small plastic grocery) bag carried out to the trash barrel in the back yard: who said "I can't get no satisfaction"? The cleaning tide is now lapping at My Desk. I've actually started: there are no piles of junk on top of the scanner or on the floor, the two shelves of the scanner wagon are organized, and three months of credit card statements have been entered into Quicken. The 9/11 Commission Report has found a home, bracing up a short row of sf lit crit (on which reposes a panda bear), and on top of it stands a little Jordanian flag. I can see it from where I sit. Very satisfying. While dusting books, I pulled several that are ready to move on: some to friends who might like them, others to next summer's West Tisbury library book sale. I'm less possessive of books than I used to be. Sure, part of me shrieks, "Don't! Don't! You might need that book someday!" Which is indeed true of a few books, the ones that don't need dusting because I open them enough. Some of the dusty ones aren't going anywhere either; they're as much a part of me as my memory. I'm no longer the possessor of books; I'm their custodian. They're in my protective custody. When I touch a book and immediately think of a particular person who might need it, want it, treasure it, love it, then it's time to let that book go, lest I become its jailer. If I owned a house, and could add on rooms and buy or build shelves to hold my books, well, I might be a Midas among bibliophiles, stockpiling books, counting them, wandering through my rooms stroking spines and caressing covers. But necessity is a mother of virtue. I live on Martha's Vineyard and belong to the tenant tribe, among whom moving twice a year is not unusual. My last two moves, in 2001 and 2002, were accomplished with six round-trips of a small pickup. I am no turtle, to carry all my belongings on my back; still, if my next move requires seven round-trips, I will be looking for ways to downsize.
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