This is a good thing. Good because I am lightening the accumulation of stuff which loafs around my house getting dusty and looking reproachfully at me as I fail to dust it in favour of doing some writing. Good because recycling is not the same as tossing things into landfills. So far so good.
My problem is with the books – I have Oh So Many books that, sadly, have come to the end of their days. I have given as many to the local library as they would accept, and am now left with several large boxes of dusty paperbacks, some of these are more than 25 years old. I will never read them again. I will never recommend them to visitors. I have no room to put them on book shelves. And yet I feel very twitchy at the idea of recycling them along with cereal packets, junk mail, envelopes and magazines.
And there’s the thing – why do I feel OK recycling piles of monthly magazines (costs £3 – £4 each) and yet vacillate over each novel (cost £5 – £8)?
Why does disposing of a book feel so personal?