The situation was getting desperate. The shelves were bending. The thing looked like this:
The geckos had started renting out The Prophet’s dust jacket to a family of huntsmen.
No mercy, we said. Only if we’ll read it again. We said. The rest can go into this empty beer carton and we will have pretty bookshelves again.
At the start, it was easy.
Everything by Roald Dahl, Margaret Atwood and Bill Bryson. Keep.
All 75 books written by David Eddings. Keep. But not the double-ups.
Jeremy Clarkson and James May. Gone.
John Grisham. Gone.
The Helen Fielding book about the woman who wasn’t Bridget Jones. Gone.
Ulysses by James Joyce. Gone—I even refrained from the ceremonial burning.