This morning, my girls and I were at a used book sale. You know that's always dangerous, but I promised myself that this time, I'd buy only books I truly love or truly needed, because otherwise, what was all that summer book decluttering for?
I was doing quite well. I had in my hand a Beverly Cleary that we've never read. (I didn't know such a creature existed! But it does! Muggie Maggie!) We'd also grabbed an Andrew Clements book that has long been a favorite of Ramona's. Anne-with-an-e found some Ray Bradbury, and Ramona and I thought that a science book that explained why penguins feet don't freeze was probably within our guidelines of "need." And since we don't own a copy of the Cary Grant/Audrey Hepburn movie Charade, I told Ramona she should definitely grab it. It was only 50 cents, after all, and Grant and Hepburn fall into the "truly love" category.
And then what to my discerning eye should appear?
We paid for our reasonable handful of books, escaped without spending the month's food budget, and we are all happy. No teetering, homeless piles of books this time.
(Remember the last used book sale foray? Our spoil looked like this and my shelves were already overflowing:)
Of course, the absence of teetering stacks after hitting a book sale also makes me a little sad, as it should any true book lover.
Sorry, Marie Kondo, but that's a fact of bibliophilic life.