The photos can burn:help me get these books out the window

The most comfortable seat in my house is opposite my bookshelves. If I arrange it right, when people come to visit, I put them in the comfortable seat, and they think it’s because I want them to be comfortable. Actually, it’s because I’m looking for a particular reaction. They sit, and talk, and drink coffee, but their eyes wander. And then eventually they can’t help themselves. They lean forward in the comfortable chair and say, ‘Why do you have a book on home schooling, Karyn?’ Or, ‘Hey, I’ve got that edition of Lord of the Rings’. Or, ‘Is that book called Off One’s Tits?’ Or, ‘The Joint Book? What’s that about?’

In reverse order:
(a)It’s about joints – like in timber? I have this fantasy about one day making a perfect dovetail, but mostly I just look at the pictures.
(b)Yeah, it’s this Queensland journalist called John Birmingham gonzo-ing on drug culture, he’s hilarious - he wrote He Died With a Felafel…?
(c)Nice, mine was a prize in Year 7; I think I read it too young because it didn’t really leave an impression.
(d)I wanted to know whether it was a good idea - I’d probably consider it depending on what any kids I may have are like.

Sometimes, they can’t even stay in the chair. In the middle of a completely unrelated conversation, they’ll be up and across the room and flicking through the quarto of Arthurian legends, or Nigella’s ‘Domestic Goddess’ or the bio on Keith Green.

I had my books packed up in boxes for about four months last time I moved house and I felt like I’d lost a limb. Worse than that. I felt dazed, uncertain, like half my brain and two thirds of my personality was missing. The stuff I know, the things I’ve done, the places I’ve lived, the people I’ve loved – they’re attached to my books like helium balloons strung from a fence.