I won't belabor the point. My books, for reasons mostly having to do with laziness when I moved into our loft six years ago and then a construction project four years later, have been shelved according to the color of their spines. I've outlined the challenges such a system of organization presents.
It was time for a change. As in: it was time for me to find the freaking books I was looking for the moment I was looking for them, not three weeks later.
This change led to the inevitable un-shelving, piling and re-shelving of many, many books this weekend.
Certain things come to light when your books are finally sorted by author after six years of color-coded chaos. Things like: I have three copies of Murkami's Kafka on the Shore, two copies of Aira's Ghosts, where is my original copy of House of Leaves with all my notes, wither my once-complete collection of Dostoevsky, damn I like Stephen Dixon and Nicholson Baker and John Banville and Joan Didion and Donald Barthelme, where have all my Bolano's gone, I need more space for W's, I have four copies of Jane. You get the idea.
Most disturbing thing that came to light: I have thirty-six books on writing.