For much of my life, I have loved to lie on my bed and just stare at my freaking beautiful, glorious bookshelf. Occasionally I’ll think about what it’d be like to come home with myself on a date for the first time — the joy it would be to roll over in the morning, to see all of those amazing titles in this new partner’s possession. The Fact of a Doorframe. Nazim Hikmet, Kepler’s Witch. “You like Grace Paley?” I would gasp gushily. “You keep The Voyage of the Beagle next to your bed?”

I think I would fall in love with myself, right there.*

*Assuming, of course, that I was not completely weirded out by anything in that “self-help and sexuality” section.

You may also like


  1. 1) I would like to thank you for saying this out loud.
    2) Last winter I spent a significant amount of time trying to hide the many, many copies of “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell” that I got as crappy presents over the years.

  2. I received two bookshelves for Christmas, and they bring my living room together wonderfully. Of course, I have very few books to put in them – they are mostly filled with records and board games. But now people can see the embarrassing schlock I’ve read over the years, minus my copy of Paul Reiser’s Couplehood, which I have apparently misplaced/tossed awhile ago.

  3. I too like to objectively judge myself based on my taste in books, although more often than not I end up feeling a little embarassed, because it’s not quite the brilliant, nuanced renaissance-y smart-fest I like to imagine it is. Still, I have judged others to be awesome based on their nightstand books, only to discover that they were in fact f-ing nuts.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *