In our house, we sometimes look at our belongings and remind ourselves: “One day, all of this will be packed into boxes and taken to a charity shop.” I can’t see our gloomy mantra achieving the popularity of Marie Kondo’s injunction only to keep things that spark joy, but the recognition of the futility of relentless acquisition is very much the spirit of the age.
Many crave liberation from “stuffocation”, and some find it through the catharsis of a Kondoesque clear-out or “Scandinavian death cleaning” — the apparently traditional Nordic decluttering undertaken at the arrival of old age.
Having recently put everything into boxes for the less terminal adventure of a house move, we decided to strictly limit how much came out of them at the other end. However, we knew that there is one kind of object that defiantly resists the cardboard coffin: books. Like so many, we would happily decimate our wardrobes, clear out our cupboards and gut our garages, but would struggle to liberate our libraries. Why is it so hard?