Books have been at the centre of my life since I was ten and recognised the library as my temple, but it was only as an adult that I realised that my bibliotheca had become a well-curated dichotomy between what I buy and what I read—Japanese call it tsundoku.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
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There’s something almost sacred about the ritual of acquisition. The weight of a new book in your hands, the crisp sound of pages being turned for the first time, the promise contained within an unopened cover. Each purchase feels like a small act of faith—in yourself, in time you don’t yet have, in the person you might become after reading it. The bookshop becomes a confessional where you whisper your aspirations to shelves that don’t judge.
My towers of unread books have grown into monuments to intention. They stand in corners and lean against walls, silent witnesses to every moment I chose Netflix over Nietzsche, scrolling over Sebald. Each spine is an IOU to my future self, a promissory note written in hope and paid in guilt. The irony isn’t lost on me that in trying to feed an intellectual hunger, I’ve created an indigestion of obligations.
Yet there’s odd comfort in the presence of unread books. They represent possibility in its purest form—every story still pristine, every argument still fresh, every revelation still waiting. A read book is a closed door; an unread one remains forever open. Perhaps tsundoku isn’t entirely sin but a form of optimism, a belief that there will always be another evening, another weekend, another version of ourselves ready to crack open that perfect spine and begin again.
The Japanese understood something profound when they coined this word. It acknowledges not just the act but the psychology behind it—the beautiful foolishness of believing we can possess knowledge simply by possessing its vessels. My unread books don’t judge my pace; they simply wait, patient as monks, ready to transform me whenever I’m ready to be transformed.
In the end, perhaps the sin isn’t in the buying but in the guilt. These books chose me as much as I chose them, and they’ll wait however long it takes for the right moment to reveal their secrets. After all, the best relationships are built on patience, and what is a personal library but a collection of relationships yet to be fully explored?
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