The Shame of the Books You'll Never Read

Chicago has been my home for all of my adult life. While school and jobs and friends were some compelling reasons not to leave it, the biggest anchor keeping me in the city was my books. When friends would ask if I planned on ever moving, trying out someplace else, even for only a little while, I’ve shrugged away their questions. “Not until I can afford to move my books,” I would answer.

Hundreds of books sit on my bookshelves and a few hundred more are stacked in corners. At least a few hundred more are being stored uncomplainingly by my parents. Last time I counted the complete haul it came out to 988 books; but that count was many years ago and I’m too afraid to do another.

A few weeks ago I wanted to quote a Baudelaire poem so I scanned the spines, looking for my copy of Flowers of Evil. What I found instead are hundreds of books I’ve owned but never read. Books I’d forgotten I’d even ever bought. Embarrassingly, there were a handful of duplicate books, some where I hadn’t read even one of the copies.

The books I’ve kept but haven’t read have been somewhat of an embarrassment for me. For someone who talks about books as much as I do, it’s always been a bit of a shameful secret that I haven’t read most of the books on my shelves. This isn’t to say, of course, that I haven’t read many books because I’ve read a lot. It’s just, I’ve read lots of books but own lots and lots more.

I’m finally leaving Chicago. After many years of avoiding it, I’ve finally managed to get enough boxes and enough time off to pack up my books and figure out a way to get them across the country.

As I’ve been dusting off volumes, I’ve had to make some choices about what to take and what to leave behind. More often than not, I’ve chosen to take each book with me. In my to-haul-to-Boston pile I’ve included many a book I haven’t read and, honestly, will likely never read. Remember that time I decided that I need to learn about meteorology and that I need ten books to do so? Or how about the time I thought I’d learn about materials science and bought four books to get started?

I’ve spent a lot of hours in the last few days paging through these books I haven’t read, will never read, but am yet for some reason taking across the country with me. And I’ve decided to stop feeling shame for carrying so many unread and will-never-be-read books with me. Because those books, the ones that will keep collecting dust, are just as much a part of my life education as the ones I’ve half finished or almost finished or didn’t finish but read enough reviews to confidently pretend like I’ve finished when discussing them with friends.

For every unread book I’m keeping, there was a time in my life when I thought that book would help me somehow. I thought it may give me knowledge or nourish me emotionally. Just because I haven’t read it doesn’t mean it’s not serving a purpose. And I don’t mean only that it served a purpose, in the past tense; I mean that its continued existence, nudging itself between other books I’ve actually read, is still contributing to my emotional education.

There sit the books on the myriad of topics I was once interested in, proving that I can have interests, no matter how fleeting. Proving that I can care enough to expend energy and dollars in pursuit of my interests. And showing that, if I stop caring about one thing, there are ten more things to be curious about. The world is a big, glorious, complicated place and we needn’t feel guilty for trying to take in as much of it as possible, even if that means hundreds of unread volumes on our bookshelves.