“I could never get rid of a book,” plenty of people say, when what they really mean is: “I could never get rid of a book that makes me look clever.” Middle-class bookshelves are as carefully curated as any art exhibition, crafted to reflect us in the best possible light; a hint of the intellectual (Julian Barnes’s The Noise of Time, Foucault’s Pendulum), a bit of modern award-winning literature (A Brief History of Seven Killings, The Song of Achilles) and a few stylish, lighter pieces to show we know the difference between a classic and a casual beach read (Where’d You Go, Bernadette, How to Build a Girl). All so that when visitors cast an eye over the shelves, we can say: “Have you read it? I really enjoyed it, actually,” without embarrassment, indicating the golden door-stop of Bring Up the Bodies, or the slim elegance of the adoringly reviewed We Have Always Lived in the Castle.
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