Does the object bring me joy? Is it useful to me? These are the Minimalists' questions, and they change everything with regard to books, at least for me.
Les Vins de Bordeaux should theoretically be useful, except that it's in French. I can actually read a bit of French, and I've been keeping it all these years, thinking someday I would sit down and go through it. I was an Arts & Ideas major, and to complete my degree, I had to prove fluency in a foreign language by completing several college-level courses in that language. Yes, I have read the textbook Socialism en France, and I understood it and the entire political history of France described therein. I wrote multiple papers about it and I took a final exam which involved writing essays in French about the French revolution. Over thirty years ago. The likelihood that I will use this book to learn about French wines is, shall we say, minimal. Who in their right mind would use a book, even one written in your native tongue, when you can actually drink wine in a wine-tasting class at Washtenaw Community College?
Furthermore, very few books bring me joy, at least sitting on the shelf years after I read them. This isn't to say that I don't enjoy books. I do. I enjoyed The Summons very much, as I do every John Grisham book. He's the master. I enjoy Susan Minot, and I enjoyed looking through Tales and Mysteries. But these books don't bring me joy. Why am I keeping them?
I may end up hiring a U-Haul and hauling my entire book collection to the AAUW drop-off on August 16.
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