Friday, February 24, 2006
I've been sort of compulsively reorganizing my books over the past few days. Taking them all down off the shelves and putting them into categories. Memoir, history, science, fiction. I had some debate as to whether I should segregate the science fiction from the general fiction. I ultimately decided against it, because it somehow cheapens the science fiction. The best science fiction transcends the genre.
Other than the pleasure of running across books I love and had forgotten about (I happened upon a well-worn illustrated copy of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," from my childhood, which filled me with warm sentiment) or that I look forward to reading (Stanislaw Lem's "His Master's Voice), I experienced an odd elation at the strange bedfellows created by alphebetization. A William Buckley potboiler ended up next to Burroughs's "Naked Lunch." I imagine Buckley being outraged and smile.