We've always collected books. Through communism and censorship, my grandfather collected books. Good books. Old books. His books. Which he never published. He got chummy with the Commies for a while, after which he didn't, and it seems neither helped him get published in the end. Our entire family is made up of books.
When my grandmother died, and we got to unpacking the apartment, it was a communal effort to get rid of all the books. We gave many to relatives. I think my uncle and his girlfriend at the time, alone, carried off six big bags of books. His sister and her kids took a few bags more. We dumped some we were really not interested in. We took some ourselves. And still, we left behind a small balcony wall crammed with books.
When I moved into my own place, somehow I knew immediately I wanted to fill a wall with books myself. I'm still working on it. I've managed to acquire a fair few, though I've also sold some over the past year. Books I no longer connected with. Did you know there's a black market for vampire fiction? That stuff goes for big bucks, which I (unfortunately) found out post-sale.
I never thought of it as a collector's thing before. It just feels natural to me to keep 'em, mostly because they tell stories, because I (like most writers) feel comfortable in their presence. As such, they're too many to discuss individually.
So I'll just show you bits of my collection. (I know, I'm really late to this topic - I hope 
I've got too many books to name. Some that I love best are...
my theater collection
Acquired over many many trips abroad. I spent years browsing second-hand bookstores for playbooks, and broke my back several times carting back old biographies. The old, yellowed John Osbornes I found in a second hand bookstore in Barcelona and used them as beach reads, even though I understand plays like "Luther" aren't what's traditionally meant by "beach read".
Speaking of second-hand bookstores, I remember the tiny one in Fuengirola, where I found "The Dangerous Summer" (perhaps my favorite of Hemingway's works), which allowed for this gem of a shot:
I've been working on my theater collection a long time, and I return obsessively to the people who have marked my education - Sam Shepard, Martin McDonagh, Tennessee Williams, Neil LaBute. There's a certain satisfaction in getting all their works, like you can really properly know them through this. If only. As if.
my Sir Terrys
Pilfered, mostly, from my mother's collection, since it was 
The biography of Sir Terry, I remember reading at night in my bunk bed in Prague, when I was first staying there. It was an unfortunate choice, as I was supposed to be catching an early morning plane and should've been sleeping a long time. But I was nearing the end, and couldn't really. Man, did I cry.
Rob's remembering of Sir Terry's death was so exceptionally moving, and difficult to get through. I carried that book around with me, and before, I'd been reading some short stories by him while ambling and discovering that beautiful city for the first time, so for me, Prague is heavily associated with Sir Terry. What a delight to discover later how loved he is in the Czech Reb, how appreciated. I remember passing a man by in Luxor, one of the big bookstore chains there, who had in his arms, proudly, several Discworld books. Kinship, unspoken.
my psychology collection
Some of it, uspide down, which is probably appropriate. Some of these, I love for what they meant to me at the time. Pete Walker's book on PTSD for me was incredibly helpful and definitely the kind of book I would gift forward (and have). Alice Miller's seminal work on childhood trauma, again, brilliant. Peterson's books, all of them, that shaped who I became. I actually got Maps of Meaning when he came to speak in Bucharest a few years ago, and cherished it, even though I found it a tricky read that really does demand your full attention and active brain power. Good ones usually do.
And up top, everything Jung. Some of those, like the Marion Woodmans for instance (boy, is she incredible) I got at the Jung Institute in Basel. Emma's book I got at a specialized second-hand bookstore off Cecil Court. Some were in the family for generations. I think, after Peterson, Jung's the next most resounding impact in this field at least, on me, and I am still discovering and growing under his influence.
(which seems silly to say, given how impactful he was for psychology in general, and of course, for JBP)
finally, my Dylan collection
Anyone who's followed me here for a while has probably heard me mention Dylan at least once. Enough people who've visited me ask "who the fuck is that". Few men have inspired me more or impacted my writing more. Read carefully, you see Dylan in everything I do. I'm sometimes struck, reading through a work backwards, to catch all his little influences I hadn't even noticed at the time of writing.
He, also, has been the object of my obsessive wanderings and collection efforts. I've ordered some of the books, but typically dug them out in second hand bookstores. My mother complains, still, that somehow, after all these years, I manage to find a Dylan biography anywhere we go. I have one by my bed at this very moment, as it happens, yet unread. And there's one on the balcony because I thought it smelled funny, though read.
Some are wonky. Some, like the Ferris biography, are golden standard. Personally, I lloved Dylan Thomas in America, by John M. Brinnin, who hosted him (and who is often, unfortunately, blamed for Dylan's untimely death at 39). Fantastic book.
Well. My stomach's grumbling after a morning class, and I guess that's enough now for my collection. Thanks for reading.
