I have just purged by library fairly heavily. This is not at all a common occurrence for me. In fact, I cannot recall ever having discarded so many books at once, perhaps not even if I was to total all of my previous purges together. I removed from my catalogue something more than a hundred books all told.
The decision to make this purge came on me very suddenly as I was looking over my shelves the other day, an epiphany of sorts, on an admittedly minor scale. I realized that my criteria for reading has changed so much over the decade since I completed by formal education that I no longer have any interest in the kinds of books that I once valued highly enough to collect. However long a life I might live, I reflected, I would never read these anthologies of critical writing on Shakespearean tragedy or these collections of essays on the discontents of postmodernism, so I started to pull from the shelves all those books that no longer had a place in my reading practice, the books that are mere parasites on better books, the endless production of literary academia.
I no longer have time for these books in my reading practice, and I have long believed that a bookshelf should be an index to the one who has filled it. So I purged, and I weeded, and I pruned, and in the process I think perhaps I also pruned some dead branches from myself.