I've been throwing books out today. And it's hard to describe just how hard that is for me.
You see, the ones that are going in the trash are ones that are old enough to have cracked spines that are causing the pages to come loose and fall out. And that means that most of them are MY BOOKS from when I was little.
Where the Red Fern Grows.
A Little Princess.
The Sign of the Twisted Staircase.
It feels like I'm turning my back on an old friend. The very reason these books are no longer readable is because I've read and re-read and re-RE-read them so many times before. The words, the tone, the smell of the ink and the paper and the glue... it's all so familiar. I can pick up any one of them and open to any spot and immediately be drawn in and just lose myself in the story.
Even though I know how silly it is to feel such guilt, I can't seem to help it. And it is silly. The ones that are going into the trash are ones I've gotten newer copies of. There are others, like Magic Elizabeth, that I haven't replaced, and those are staying with me.
Aren't the words the important part? Why do I have such difficulty letting go of these old books?
Image Credit: Shelf Life