I am not moving, but I feel a need to rid myself of useless baggage: books that no longer speak to me, files I haven't touched in years, fencing equipment, guns that I will never take to the range, my long-unfinished plywood skiff, the two old computers I keep for the games on them but which I have not actually powered up in a couple of years, my banjo. It is like confession, admitting what I no longer care about.
My parents left it until too late, and I and my sisters had to deal with their stuff, filling up a boxcar-length dumpster.
Stanley Fish writes about letting go of his books and whether to retire on the NYT Opinionator Blog in Moving On.
In the hours and days following the exodus of the books I monitored myself for a post-mortem (please excuse the hyperbole) reaction. Would I feel regret? Nostalgia? Panic? Relief? I felt nothing. What should have been a momentous event barely registered as I moved on to what seemed the more important task of choosing a new carpet. I was reminded of what a colleague who had left a university after 23 years replied when I asked him if it was difficult to do. He said, “It was like checking out of a motel.”Many of the comments are worth reading, at least the NYT Picks.