Whoever invented the bookshelf is a real son of a b*tch.
I fill mine with cookbooks. Otherwise the shelves are empty and I feel guilty (but also I love cooking, so the benefits are twofold). Novels and non-fiction are few and far between on my decorative little shelves.
A beer-stained copy of Hamlet lies prominently, left over from my high school days. I quote it occasionally to make it seem like I’m well-read. And wise. Hamlet lives on top of my cookbook pile, so everyone knows I both cook and read Shakespeare.
I’m single. Really.
At the moment, however, my bookshelf is a disorganised rabble of other people’s interests; books I’ve been given for birthdays and Christmases by people I love… but whom, at the same time, are unspeakably passive aggressive with their gift-giving.
Hear me out here.
In my (probably wildly unpopular) opinion, books accompany deodorant and gym memberships atop the passive aggressive gifts list.
They're the work of the devil, simply because they're so unassuming. They seem lovely. It seems the gifter has gone to great lengths. It seems to be a mature and elegant present because books are (usually) intellectual (and we all love coming across as intellectual). In turn, I seem to be appreciative when they're handed to me.
But really it's a big fat middle finger with page numbers and an index.