mikegerber.com

This post, like every other, blurts to you from the mouth of my book-lined cave, situated a mere six blocks from the el grande wetness here in Santa Monica. With a bright public library just down the street and the cyber-servant flickering in front of my nose, a personal library seems like a bit of an indulgence. Yet I can’t imagine living without one, and not just in those dark hours when the wifi’s down, either. To me, a collection of books is half-Rorschach and half-garden, a form of psychological self-expression to be weeded and tended and improved over time. And if you have found your way to this blog, I suspect you feel the same.

The black Ikea shelves in my office hold approximately 1,000 volumes, a nice round number, and their contents track my life and interests more accurately than any autobiography. I am what I have read, from the foot of MAD magazines to the forearm’s worth of Gibbon. That’s not to say that the collection is static—far from it. In addition to the vast cullings that take place before every move, there is a steady inhalation and exhalation of material. Only a few perennials are safe, gifts from friends, or keepsakes purchased on important dates, or in memorable places. But these Proustian madelines are few, and growing fewer as I become older and less romantic. Even untouchables are occasionally exchanged for better editions, sturdier ones, or more compact. As in any library, space is always at a premium.

Which brings me to my question: If you were building a library from scratch, with only a thousand books’ worth of space, which books would you include, and why?