We never plan to organise the bookshelves, it just tends to happen. One weekend morning, M will finish breakfast and declare that he is sorting out the books, and bring the wooden steps into the living room. I’ll sit on the sofa and he’ll begin, from the top left-hand corner, where the bookshelves meet the ceiling, running his fingers along the spines and calling out titles and names. Somehow, this has become the way we decide if we want to keep something or not.
The bookshelf system was put in place soon after we moved in together. I have always kept books, but never a system. They have sat on my shelves and bedside tables in an order of hunch and instinct that made sense to me but was nevertheless difficult to explain. He has always alphabetised. There are a handful of ways in which I am more chaotic than him, but how we put books on shelves is one of them. How we put things in cupboards is another.
We moved on a Friday and the carpenters arrived the Wednesday afterwards, to fill up the alcoves with wood. The space looked large, and I harboured intentions of having a “stuff shelf” in the middle, where we could keep small, worthless treasures I’d found on holiday and photographs. But the books swelled and stuffed, bringing with them new rules: these shelves must only hold titles we have read. Downstairs, we dedicated another case to those we haven’t. This is known as the “Unread Shelf”.