Books that are not intended to be read

I love being surrounded by books. My favorite study spots are public libraries—the knowledge from all the books seems to permeate the room and seep into my skin. Summer brings a brief respite from endless schoolwork, but they always pass faster than expected and I become aware of the academic obligations looming in my future. Hoping to feel some sense of productivity, I looked at some office tours online—the most optimal setup, the classiest organizational system. I quickly found an unsurprising commonality in all the setups I liked: bookshelves. The way they lined the walls and enveloped the corners of the best office spaces sparked a frenetic, academic inspiration in me, and I looked over to my own bookshelves.

I’m pretty proud of my collection, which I’ve amassed over years of thrift store scouring, trips to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, diversions at Costco, and the occasional copy at Barnes and Noble. My favorite books are all in a single cube on my shelf, stacked like Tetris blocks so that they fill the entire space. The books at the bottom are practically inaccessible, although I enjoy seeing them there even if I haven’t touched them in years.

Many of the office furnishings contained paperback box sets still wrapped in plastic and neatly arranged in rows on shelves – the “display sets.” The actual books that were actually read were hidden; parts of an identical set were squashed behind the unopened one. They did not match the aesthetic, which was clean and precise. Instead, the popular books were behind shiny plastic to match the expected style.

Honestly, I like my aesthetic better. I like how worn my books look; I like the overlap of narratives; I like the frenetic feeling of academic curiosity that comes from the shelves. I like the juxtaposition of content and context; the adventures within the books themselves and the adventures I’ve had to add them to my collection.

But in reality, both aesthetics seem at odds with the depth of books. Books are so deeply personal – my life has been forever changed by my encounters with them. I have been exposed to new kinds of people and different mentalities, real and fantastic. Masterfully crafted sentences and even single words have become embedded in my brain – I couldn’t get rid of them if I tried.

It feels wrong to stain an object with coffee like this.

And yet I stuff them into backpacks, fold pages (a source of serious online discussion), scribble in the margins, and break their spines. I’ve committed many serious faux pas on my bookshelf. It feels almost heretical to admit it—perhaps I should instead revere my copies and treat them with the seriousness they deserve.

At the same time, it feels cheap to limit the purpose of a book to the aesthetic realm. When you buy a book you like without any intention of reading it, its value becomes inextricably linked to capital, possession, and ownership.

In a political theory class earlier this year, I was introduced to Locke’s idea of ​​personhood as defined by the property one owns and the work one does. In other words, Locke defined a person as an entity that can claim ownership of its property.

I was initially reluctant to see this idea. I did not like how something as intimate as an identity, a personal Identity, could be subtracted until one reaches a pulsating core Property. I flatly refused. I didn’t want my identity to be made up of billboards, advertising jingles and fluorescent shopping malls. But the idea quickly permeated my mental space and I noticed it popping up everywhere. I forgot to put on my watch and felt weird all day. “I don’t feel like myself!!,” I texted my girlfriend. I left my sketchbook at home and without its calming weight in my bag I felt restless even though I wouldn’t have had a chance to use it anyway. I borrowed a top from my girlfriend and took off my usual outfit, then immediately felt out of place. If I didn’t own these things – My Objects – I felt less like myself.

So perhaps Locke is on to something—with each new book I buy, I feel like I’m asymptotically approaching my identity as a “reader.” Moreover, these various indicators of a “book-loving” culture can be socially beneficial. When one encounters an extensive book collection, a sense of grandeur is left behind, and the owner’s identity is subconsciously linked to sophistication and increased intellectual priority. Engaging with the aesthetics of books, even if one isn’t engaging with the books themselves, allows one to fit into academic communities and provides a connection point to people with similar interests. I’m overjoyed when I discover a new friend’s book collection. Just as office tours make me more productive, spending time in a room full of books evokes feelings of intellectual fulfillment.

Online reading communities – BookTok, BookTube, Bookstagram – perpetuate this phenomenon of ownership. Book hauls, bookshelf tours, and book subscription boxes like Illumicrate are cornerstones of these communities and expressions of a culture of rampant consumerism. It is common to collect multiple exclusive editions of books and present series of different covers with identical content. Influencers often impose “book buying bans” when they recognize the financial burden and create a separation between buying and reading. One user commented on Withcindy’s video “Why I only own 4 books 💸 A chat about Booktube consumerism,” saying, “Before seeing/starting Booktube, I never really felt the need to physically own any of the books I read. After seeing all these people with their pretty hardcovers and raving about book mail all the time, I felt kind of left out.” Publishers seem to be aware of readers’ desire to “aestheticize” their hobby – after all, they are the ones who publish exclusive editions of popular books – and this vicious cycle continues.

Aestheticism on the internet is nothing more than consumerism. Aesthetics and microtrends dominate internet culture, and alongside them, companies jostle for a piece of the hype. Barnes and Noble has a BookTok section in its stores because they are aware of the enormous influence this online community has on their consumer base.

Reading is a completely free hobby; you don’t have to invest anything, so the consumer culture embedded in the online community is interesting. In elementary school, before I had my own books, I went to the library next door every week. I read more then too. For free. The glued-on dust jackets, stains or old-fashioned deckle edges didn’t bother me. I was only interested in the ink on the page, the story hidden between the covers.

Still, there’s something to be said for the joy you get from making your space beautiful. Being surrounded by books while I work brings me joy. The aesthetic side of reading, however, is different from the reading itself. When you’re floating in that listless state, totally absorbed in the story on the pages, the physical nature of the book doesn’t matter.

There is an opportunity to detach yourself from aesthetics entirely and try to figure out where a book’s value actually comes from. A pristine box has no value because it’s never been opened. My books have no value because of their wear. And a collector’s edition has no value because it has sprayed edges or gold plating. A book has value because of the story it tells; its true value is something that goes beyond the physical. Its provenance and condition are irrelevant. My identity and my relationship to reading should be tied to exactly that: reading, not ownership or aesthetics. The book doesn’t matter—you can just read.

Columnist Eleanor Barrett can be reached at [email protected].

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