Monday, March 22 2004 @ 12:48 AM PST

Contributed by: matt

Just an observation: I have a lot of frigging books.

I can't say that my literary larders are more well stocked than some people I know, but those people aren't moving this week.

Eight boxes and counting. I guess that doesn't sound like a lot in those terms, but each box has at least twenty books in it, and a few of them have closer to fifty. The first four boxes of books were easy to find. They were the ones on various shelves around the apartment. The problem is that I keep finding more, everywhere I look. Under the bed, beside the desk, in my closet, under the other desk, everywhere. Every time I move something I find another little cache of books mocking me.

Perhaps more surprising to me than the sheer volume of books is the variation in content. Beyond the obligitory paperback fiction, I've got a fairly comprehensive collection of non-fiction, with everything from books on how to play harmonica to wilderness survival to learning french in fourteen days (that last one didn't work out so well... all I can remember is merde, which I don't think is in that book anywhere).

Want to tie knots? I've got a book on it. Want to learn about chaos theory? I've got that too. The books about various forms of writing warrant their own section, and the books about computer networks fill more than two of the boxes.

I suppose part of the problem is my inherent inability to throw away a book. The last box I packed, for example, contains (among other things) my high school geometry book, a copy of "Bag of Bones", a reference on network switches that were manufactured by a company that no longer exists, a handful of novels, a reference on stage makeup, and a children's dictionary, and that's just the stuff on top.

I suppose there are worse things in the world than having a whole bunch of books, but I can't help feeling that it's too bad that I can't stand e-books, because it'd be a hell of a lot easier to put a couple of CDs in my pocket than to haul a quarter ton of paper from one apartment to the other.

C'est la vie, as the french are purported to say.