Mysteries? Hmm, is it a green one?

OK, as a work of art, maybe. But there's something about this that really bugs me.

A bookshop organized by color. "For one amazing week in November, Adobe Bookshop in San Francisco has agreed to allow its estimated 20,000 books to be reclassified by color. Shifting from red to orange to yellow to green, the books will follow the spectrum continuously, changing Adobe from a neighborhood bookshop into a magical library—but only for one week."

My wife hates it when I yell at the TV, but idiots piss me off. Some time ago we were watching a decorating show and the designer was so proud of a reading room where he'd organized all of the books based upon their colors. It immediately set me off.

I'm a lover of books, both as a reader and one who enjoys the art of the book itself. The book as an object holds special value to me. But to organize your shelfs by the color of the binding completely disregards the special nature of books and relegates them to knickknacks, disposable, valueless, pretty things. Arrange them to look pleasing. It matters not what's in them. It's as bad as the designers who load up a model home with Readers Digest Condensed Books and the cast offs from rummage sales.

Here's a secret about me. I judge people and their intellect by the books they read and keep in their homes. I watch what people are reading in restaurants and airports. Lots of my friends and acquaintances, good people, have no books and read very rarely. I find that a sad thing. I love visiting someone's home to discover a shelf of books. So rarely do I find walls full. It's a treat.

What can you tell about me by the books on my shelves? Well, on the ground floor when you enter the family room, you'll find a wall filled with books. You'll see a shelf of cookbooks and above it, three shelves of plays and books on theatre history and criticism. The middle section is overflowing with mysteries, some horror (but not much), American history, biographies, world history, and general literature (which has flowed over into the theater section). The third section is filled with books on religion, myth, philosophy, science, physics and math, and topped by a shelf of comedy. Next to a big comfy leather chair and ottoman you'll find a table which currently holds a copy of Remembrance of Things Past (or Searching for Lost Time, if you prefer) borrowed from Hedwig, a slim volume labeled "The Emperor's Handbook" which is a version of Marcus Aurelius writings, and whatever else I'm currently reading.

In the guest bathroom you'll find a small stack of books, currently a volume of Ogden Nash's poetry and a volume of Francis Bacon, along with the delightful "I Saw Esaw".

In my den on the second floor you'll find another wall of books. One section is largely science fiction, but one shelf is naval fiction mainly occupied by Patrick O'Brian. The middle section is reference works, primarily, the the third contains science fiction anthologies and paperbacks and general fiction. And another comfy chair and a stack of new things to read.

Oh, and I also have a personal rule: never leave the house without something to read.

Elsewhere in the house you'll find shelves with children's literature. The girls each have shelves of their own books.

I'm willing to be judged by these books. But to take them and arrange them by their color shape or size is a travesty. A bookstore it to me a sanctuary, a chapel. Arranging the pews so one can roller-skate in the middle may be ecstatically pleasing, but it's also disrespectful and sacrilegious.