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I am moving in just about ten days. I have been in my current apartment for over eight years, which is four years longer than I have ever lived in any one residence.

It’s a little weird.

I read a little less than many other book bloggers, but still more than nearly any other person I am actually acquainted with, so if I didn’t take care with the books I kept, I would be completely overrun. I do a pretty good job: I keep only books I love so much that I either consistently re-read or refer to them, or plan to re-read someday, or that were important to my intellectual development in some way, or that remind me that I was once kind of smart (what’s up, Riverside Chaucer? Is that my copy of Ryan and Rivkin’s Literary Theory next to you? I guess I’ll never read La Princesse de Clèves again, but still…)

Even so, I ended up having to chuck out quite a few books. I owned up to the fact that I would never get around to reading Michael Slater’s biography of Charles Dickens. (That one kind of hurt.) And I was never going to re-read compendiums 1 or 2 of The Walking Dead. (I’m at peace with this.) But that’s another thing: I was amused by the seemingly disparate elements of my nature that seemed to manifest in the kinds of books I owned. A sucker for pseudo-scientific personality theories as well as a die-hard feminist (and please don’t imagine that I am conflating the two merely by mentioning them in the same sentence), I said a silent prayer of apology as I slid bell hooks’ Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center, which was the only volume slim enough to stuff into the small remaining space in a full box, in between my Meyers-Briggs and Enneagram books.

In case you’re curious, I’m a type 1 INFJ. Also a Capricorn. High introversion, neuroticism, and openness, moderate amiability and conscientiousness.

As I packed, I kept finding more and more small pockets of books I’d crammed into various corners of my 5oo-square-foot apartment. “I think I’m almost done,” I said aloud.

“Nope,” my husband called helpfully from the couch, looking up from his episode of Arrow. “You missed those books down there.”

Oh, yeah. Those books. Heh.

Does anyone actually have a psychologically cohesive collection of books? I don’t know. I do know I am glad I’ve made some room for new books to take up space in my home and my head.

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