On Tuesday night, I went to my friend Christine Chitnis’s book party at The Tatter Textile Library in Brooklyn, which houses an astounding 10,000 titles relating to textile arts. (Side note: Christine’s new bookThe Patterns of Portugalis absolutely gorgeous and you should all go get a copy at your local bookstore–stat!) I’d heard about the Tatter Textile Library before, but this was my first time visiting, and I was blown away. It’s a beautiful, thoughtfully-designed space that is built for books–what’s not to love about that? But there was also something about being in the presence of the collection: A room full of books on a single topic radiated deep knowledge in a way that is hard to describe. It felt powerful.
I couldn’t help but think of the recent article in the New York Times about the TikTok trend of “bookshelf wealth,” which has already gotten its fair share of criticism (including those who bristled at the idea of ‘cultivating’ books and others who aptly pointed out that the trend was more about custom shelving and, well, straight up wealth). However, the experience of being in that library made me think of shelf wealth: I felt surrounded by riches.
Books have always been one area in which I am decidedly not a minimalist. Living in a small space, I edit my collection more than some of my book-loving friends: Novels and most non-fiction books almost always get passed on after I finish them, for example. Still, we have at least 300 books in our tiny apartment, and I will confess we’ve got another 500+ shelved in our small rental house (books are the only “personal” items we store at the property we rent out as a vacation home).
I don’t curate or style my shelves for onlookers like the TikToker influencer suggest, but I like the look of a wall of books–to me a home feels empty without them. So what books do I keep? I keep the books we reference often (for me a large collection of design books and a growing shelf of gardening tomes; for my husband photography and art books). I also keep books that spark memories or are talismans of a sort.
I keep Katherine Mansfield’s short stories because a long-ago writing teacher instructed me to read them as inspiration for the stories I was writing, and I was flattered by the advice. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet is not my favorite novel–or even my favorite David Mitchell novel—but it’s one of the only contemporary novels I’ve saved because he signed it for me at book reading at Three Lives and Company, where my friend and I had crowded in to hear him read. To the Lighthouse takes me back to my semester abroad in London, when I read exclusively British classics for four months straight (heaven!). To some, my scrappy paperback copy of Anne’s House of Dreams might seem lonely without the rest of L.M. Montgomery’s oeuvre, but it’s the one the minister referenced when he married me and my husband–not knowing Anne (with an E!) loomed large in my life. Vanishing New York will always remain on my shelf because it was the last book a dear friend (and dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker) gave me before he died.
Cookbooks are a particular weakness because they hold the promise of future usefulness and are tied to chapters of my life. Melissa Clark’s Cook This Now and Heidi Swanson’s Super Natural Every Day are the meals of the first years my husband and I cohabited. April Bloomfield’s A Girl and Her Greens reminds me of a very particular, early aughts moment in New York City dining from the chapter in my life when I was out late at trendy restaurants.
I have kept books I bought while traveling, like Driftwood Shacks, which takes me right back to the most wonderful family trip to the Northern California coast. (I highly recommend buying books wherever you go for this reason.) Likewise, when I visit an exhibition at a museum, I often buy the monograph and I write the date, place, and whom I was with inside. Would I remember the sweltering day we visited the New York Botanic Garden as clearly without Visions of Hawai'i sitting on my shelf to remind me of the cool, dark relief of the galleries where the O’Keefe paintings were hung? Perhaps, but perhaps not.
I sometimes needle my mother about all her graduate school books that are gathering dust up in the guest room (friends, I did not keep any college-required reading), but I understand why she keeps them: Those books are a formative part of her history—a sliver of who she is. Our shelves tell a story about our lives.
Our books are also old companions. When my and my sister’s kids came along, my mom unearthed a box of picture books from our childhood. It was like meeting old friends after a long separation: Here was Amos & Boris, Bonnie’s Big Day, and Won't Somebody Play with Me? Sharing those books with my son was like sharing a little slice of my childhood. I am planning to save a box of my son’s most treasured tomes because I felt such joy when those books returned to me.
Surrounded by the textile library at my friend’s book party I found myself wishing I owned more books. About 90-percent of what I read these days is borrowed from the library or a digital book, and as a result, some hugely formative texts are not present in my personal library. I’m thinking I may need to correct that.
Bookshelf wealth is an icky phrase, but there’s truth in it. Our book collections are a form of wealth. Scan my bookshelves and you have my greatest riches laid before you: Friends, travel, art, dreams, and touchstones from my professional life. So while I often sing the praises of decluttering and living with less, when it comes to books, I say: Embrace a little maximalism.
What about you? What are your “rules” for which books you keep? I’d love to hear in the comments.
Another personal essay from the archive:
All I really need to know, I learned in wood shop
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September 14, 2023
The most clicked link last week was this swell idea (of course!).
Not sure how I feel about the “box” bedroom, but I love just about everything else in this narrow garret apartment (just 8-feet wide in its center!) featured on Remodelista. Details like the ribbed glass shower door, wire-gridded interior windows, and jazzy corduroy upholstery (by Raf Simons!) charmed me.
On the theme of “wealth,” I was reminded of this 2021 essay Every Child on Their Own Trampoline that explores the difference between private and public affluence. Public affluence being money spent lavishly on things that are shared like libraries, parks, transportation, and playgrounds.
My book club chose Michael Cunningham’s Day for February and I was surprised by how much I ended up liking this pandemic novel. Just started Idra Novey’s Take What You Needand I'm wondering how I’ve never had the chance to read her crisp prose before? I also got to be a beta reader for my friend’s literary mystery novel and I felt so lucky to be among the first to read it.
One last thing: A house I’ve admired forever.
Still here? Thanks for reading to the end, and thank you for indulging this more personal essay that has little to do with living small or sustainably. If you enjoyed it, please share this post! I would love to connect with other book lovers.
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