Packing my books is always an emotional experience for me. For one thing, it always brings to light exactly how anal I can be ("Good god! I can't possibly mix the cookbooks with the British literature." "It's going to take forever to re-alphabetize all this." "Should I cushion the Compact OED with bubble wrap?" That sort of thing.) Then there are the legitimate, practical concerns. Like the fact that I'm positive someone will finally decide to recall one of the books I've been renewing from the library every semester for the last several years.

There's something else, though. The feeling I get when I put nicely-labeled lids on box after box is not unlike the feeling I get when I run out of cigarettes and know I won't be able to get to the store for a while. A strong attachment to the access, I suppose. What if Right Now is the time I decide that I will finally get to Sentimental Education? Isn't it possible that I will find it Absolutely Necessary to look up something out of Petrarch? Packing, I think, can be an exercise in loosening the attachment temporarily, but it also makes obvious the level of intimacy with which I regard the volumes on my shelves. Even the ones I haven't yet read.

Along with these thoughts, there is a sense of anticipation. As I packed Walter Benjamin's Illuminations, I already found myself thinking how delightful it will be to reread his exquisite essay "Unpacking My Library," now a habitual post-move indulgence. And there is excitement about taking a new space and making it ours. But for now, I'm out of boxes, so a few things remain easily within my reach.