Dictionaries

There comes a point in your life... well, in my life, when I just have to admit I have too many dictionaries.

I had to move my bookshelves this week, which meant I had to move the books. Which meant I had to look at them and ask myself if I really want them to stay in my life.

Turns out I have a lot of dictionaries. 26, when I stopped counting - and that wasn't including multiple volumes or works that could technically be called dictionaries but didn't have the word "dictionary" in the title. There are those who suspect the main reason I started learning two new languages was so I would have an excuse to buy more dictionaries. My collection of thesauruses or thesaurus-like books was smaller, but still somewhat ludicrous.

The simple fact of the matter is that I don't use all of them.

So, I bit the bullet and ditched a few. I no longer have the Penguin Dictionaries of Art, Science or Religion. The Pianists glossary is gone. Some of the smaller versions of Oxford have been passed on to others (although I still have the Oxford School Dictionary from 1968. Don't ask me why).

Weeding is fun, is it not? You find books that have been sitting on your shelves, unopened since the day you got them, and try to talk yourself out of keeping them for a few more years on speculation.

And then I have this strange compulsion to keep all of the plays and collections of poetry I've gathered over the years, even though I started putting my library together based on the idea that I would one day be a Speech and Drama teacher - something entirely likely ten years ago, but not so much these days.

That's the thing with books (and other stuff), sometimes. You keep them because they represented a time in your life when you were the kind of person who might read or use that book. Then you move on, but it's almost like trying to weed your photo-albums.

Pieces of yourself - now surplus to requirements - sent away to some charity to sell for 50c each at a book fair...