October 26th, 2013
Jenny Diski has a problem:
The Poet, who made Chairman Mao's red-braised pork for supper last night, so I am not entitled to complain about anything, has a dark side. Before he was an academic he was a book dealer. He gave up book dealing but not the books. We live in a terraced house which backs on to the railway line. These houses were all railway worker's cottages. They have tiny rooms and steep staircases. They are lovely, well-built but must have been cramped even with a smallish family living in them. [...]
What isn't good about them is that there are only four walls per room, and the problem of housing The Poet's 5000 books grows daily as he scours the second-hand Internet sites for volumes he's been searching out for years or a surprise first edition of a 1930's novelist that no one alive (apart from The Poet) has ever heard of. Every wall is covered. We built a shed in the garden for the overflow. There are still piles of books on the floor of his study. And the bottom of the staircase to my attic study is a dangerously tottering pile of books I've reviewed and have not got round to taking to the Amnesty Bookshop. [...]
I love The Poet's explanation, later on in the piece, about why he doesn't shelve his books in order.