The Bookshelf Problem

i live with two close friends in a cozy three bedroom apartment on the third floor of a house that is at least seventy years old. i love my house because it feels very intensely like a home to me, more so than any other place i've lived since i was maybe eighteen. part of this is the bookshelf problem...

we all read a great deal. and two of us in particular came to the apartment with *many* books. we integrated them into three large bookshelves in the living room, setting up makeshift categories (fascism, islam, gender, race, sexuality, poverty, poetry, children's literature, reference, and fiction alphabetical by author). it was a glorious day and there are still so many books in that room that i haven't read. for the record: little black sambo is shelved on the border between children's literature and racism. of course part of the reason i haven't read so many of the books is that we (i?) acquire books faster than we read them... and now we have a bookshelf problem. the roommate who had fewer books is moving and if the new roommate want to integrate hir library it's going to get messy. but i wouldn't give it up for the world. i love libraries and all but there is something about being able to browse your bookshelf when you can't sleep at three in the morning that is not satisfied by the public library website. maybe it's the bourgeouis in me coming out.