KonMari method and books: Prelude to ego death
Yesterday I procrastinated doing school work and instead cleaned up my bathroom, because of course chores are more enticing when they're framed as a distraction. I played Utopia by St. Lucia and scrubbed away the lime(scale) and grime and have to say that it gave me a sense of pride and peace afterwards. More than once today I stepped into my bathroom to admire how clean it was.
And so I'm hopping back on the decluttering train, baby. Once or twice a year I approach the stuff I own and make an effort to tidy up. I'm an adherent of Marie Kondo's method—the one that asks if something sparks joy in me as a prerequisite for my keeping it, for otherwise it is to be donated or tossed away. Recently, I noticed I've been using my e-reader more and have concluded that my personal library is due for a decluttering session.
Conventionally, books are a category that's decluttered after clothing, but (a) I already went through my wardrobe sometime in the last 18 months and donated several bags of clothes; and (b) I haven't bought any new clothing since, as I follow a "lean wardrobe" philosophy, only buying something new to replace something old. I can think of a worn out pair of jeans (worn out means cherished, yet it suffers from crotch blowout), alongside a few hoodies that I haven't reached for in months, that are due for send-offs soon. Besides these pieces, my wardrobe is pretty much stable.
It really is the category of books that I want to focus my energy on. At one point, I probably had 400+ books in my possession, which some would say is a lot and others say is not enough. This isn't about them. By my own estimation, it was a lot, and so last summer I reduced my count to 190. In considering why I kept the books I did, and in reflecting on what I do read these days, I realized and now readily admit: I derive much of my identity by what books I have on display.
I want to be known as an academic, well-read, interesting, quirky, creative. I want to be perceived as an intellectual. That's all that connects me to holding onto books. But in reading up on Eastern philosophy and religion lately, I'm learning that attachments cause suffering. Certainly, the attachments create visual noise in my living space. It occurred to me today that I don't think about the books I donated or sold previously—a true case of "out of sight, out of mind." And I don't miss them! Because there's always something else to read, and there are other things in life besides reading. All of this suggests that my ego is now ready to detach itself from a need to be identified as smart. What's become more important to me is tranquility and peace of mind. Again, I only have to peek into my bathroom at the moment to be reminded that a little tidying goes a long way in feeling peace.
So, many years ago, Marie Kondo created a fair bit of controversy when she said in her book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up that she keeps her collection of books to about 30 volumes at any one time. Book-lovers were understandably in an uproar. But that's the thing: that reaction stems from identifying with the books that one owns. This could be the case for musical instruments, one's vinyl collection, one's furnishings, one's clothes. It looks different for everyone, but the general idea is constant. This isn't me passing judgment on what a person indulges in: in my own life, books and games are what I have a tendency to collect. No, my point here is to suggest that the category we are most attached to represents the aspect of our identity that's most vulnerable. It is vulnerable because it is dependent on external notions of possession and ownership. And so it becomes a site of introspection, to discern the point at which a person honors their interests on the one hand, and protects the ego from being reliant on externals on the other.
I don't think I need 190 books on my shelves. In fact I find it a very appealing idea to replace my titles with just my e-reader. But no, there are some volumes that I derive joy and use from, like my sourcebooks for Dungeons & Dragons, or my books on typography in which a physical book presents the content more meaningfully than a digital variant. It appears that, as with so many other things, the Middle Way or moderation is ideal.
So here's my self-imposed challenge. I'm going to visit my favourite bookstore next Saturday (February 7) and sell them as many books that I can. I want to make this a single trip, so between now and then I'll go over my personal library and decide—once and for all—what will stay and what will go. As someone who now appreciates having an e-reader, I suspect a majority of what I have will be released. The more difficult task is to let go of a title based on my ego's attachment to it. But it's precisely because it's difficult, that the effort must be made.