We recently bought a place, and so in moving we went through the emotional toil of determining what to pack and what to purge. The new space afforded me an opportunity to have displayed and on hand more of my library than was possible previously as we were going to do without our half of a storage unit, but with this loss of available storage there came also the necessity of culling part of my thirty-eight box collection of books.
As I surrounded myself with towers of boxes and precarious columns of books I found my organization take four forms: 1. the volumes I decided I could, actually, live without reading - mostly library-sale editions of authors unheard of with reason, or poor copies of previously read works with the idea that eventually I would procure a proper collectible copy - that would return to "The Library" for someone else to purchase; 2. the volumes I could live without reading for the above stated reasons in a state adequately presentable that I would try to trade them in at "The Book Shop" (which is the Hayward store's actual name in a celebration of brevity); 3. the volumes I still want to keep that I have either already read but can refrain from displaying until I get a larger library space (read: my Genre author All-Star team, including John Grisham, Anne Rice, Dean Koontz, etc), and those I have not read and will but cannot part with until they are read (read Genre All-Star hopefuls), who will remain in the titular "Box"; 4. Those volumes, read and unread, by my favorite literary writers and suspected future favorite literary writers, in presentable condition that I can stare at and imagine the explosions into experience they promise when I finally get the chance to open and consume them - alphabetically organized landmines of thought and pleasure - that await me on "The Shelf".
That, and - more importantly - make me look smart and well-read and shtuff to visitors.