In the last few months, I’ve started to get rid of a lot of my books. I say ‘get rid’ which is just a harsh way of saying that I ship them off the Oxfam Bookshop, hoping they find a better home. I leave a big white Marks and Spencer paper bag open by my bookshelves and, sporadically, pick up a book, decide on its fate, then throw it in if it’s going. When the bag is full, I stick it in the boot of my car and take it to the shop. In many ways, it’s very cathartic, as well as creating space on my bookshelves.

I’ve let go of loads, hundreds possibly, over the last year or two and haven’t regretted anything. What occasionally happens though is that, after a week or two of watching a bag slowly fill, I go back in and have a second look. What was I thinking, putting those Marilyne Robinson novels in there, those Richard Ford, those Magnus Mills? I spend a happy half hour flicking though those gems and remembering why I loved them in the first place. They go back on the shelf. The ones that go are, for the most part, modern fiction I’ve not really enjoyed that much and wouldn’t miss.

What is happening is that I seem to be condensing my books down to the perfect collection. Every book that has survived has a story to tell. Where was I when I read it, what was happening in my life. That’s why books are so m much more than mere furniture. They mean more to me than my record collection because reading one implies a real investment of time and each book changed me forever. The older I get the more I see browsing my bookshelves in the same way as flicking though a family photo album.

The ones at are drawing my attention the most, at the moment, are those that I used so many times in classroom when I was teaching. ‘Laidlaw’, ‘Consider the Lilies’ ‘The Great Gatsby’, ‘Of Mice and Men’ and, of course, ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’ All were yearly staples in my classroom, and all had their good and bad points. I have been retired for almost five years yet but I’m still not ready to return to them, to read them merely as great books, just yet. They have too many ghosts.

When I look at my bookshelves now, I notice that every book has a story behind a story. Everything matters. Everything that doesn’t is gone or will be. And as I get older, I’m beginning to see the significance of that. I look around and see clutter, I feel it. Getting rid of those unnecessary things is, perhaps, a good thing. Perhaps experience is all about recognising that clutter, whether that’s possessions or people – and getting rid. My bookshelves reflect a pretty good reading life. Maybe I should have a closer look at everything else.