Male Stupidity, and Other Stories

The Thing That Should Not Be

I’ve been meaning to take opinions on this for a while.

Pictured at right are my bookshelves. Until recently, the titles were spined alphabetically, with occasional diversions for nonfiction or art books.  This was long a point of contention for my Lady, who deemed it, ‘Too much to look at,’ a sentiment that didn’t, and still doesn’t, make much sense to me.

So a couple of weeks ago, I let her have her way, reorganizing and displaying the books in a fashion that suited her fancy, and that’s what she decided on.

Now, she has pointed out that we own these books, we are not trying to sell them, so they don’t need to adhere to retail standards, and I acknowledge that.  It does not change the fact that this goes against everything I believe in media organization.  I know it gives us more space, which allows for the addition of more books, and this is never bad.  It allows us to display photographs, which is something I’m pleased we’re finally remedying, I know all these things.  I also know I spent five minutes trying to find a short story collection by Charles Baxter today because I didn’t know where in the ‘short story area’ it had worked itself to.

What say you?  Do you prefer your media meticulously alphabetized, Rob Gordon-like? Or are you taken by my Lady’s more free-flowing, intuitive system?

Finally, my linkfarming bears crops!

Nice to see I’m not the only person who takes issue with the memoir boom [certainly a problematic quibble for a blogger to have]: The New York Times bemoans the age of oversharing and offers four maxims to remedy it.

Start the clock now: Murakami’s new novel IQ84 will be out in one thousand page volume on October 25.  Oh dear God, yes.

Is writing the cure for anxiety, or its cause? The New Yorker investigates.

The Literary SMH of the Week award goes to Yann Martel, who after four years will stop sending books to Canadian PM Stephen Harper in an attempt to further engage Harper in the arts. Martel says he wants to focus on his own affairs. Which, funny enough, is my main reason for not reading Beatrice & Virgil. *ba-dum, psssh*

That’s as good a note as any to go to bed on.

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