When your library breathes

And why libraries are for more than reading

There are two common categories of books in your library: the ones you’ve read and the ones you haven’t. But there’s a third category that often gets overlooked.

These are the sentimental and beautiful books. The ones you keep because they mean something special: a gift, a souvenir from a trip, a memory bound in paper. This third category of books is neither practical nor purely for reading. It’s a living record of memory, beauty, and legacy. It’s a breathing library.

In my breathing library, I have three copies of The Old Man and the Sea: one from when I first read it in high school, another from a collectible Hemingway compilation, and a newer one with a nice cover that I bought twice so I could give the extra to a friend.

I also have an English and French copy of A Moveable Feast. The French edition is a keepsake from Paris.

And I’ve swapped out mass-produced copies for beautiful ones, like my Don Quixote from Madrid that comes to life with vivid artwork.

When I look at my shelves now, I think about the many places they’ve traveled just to survive. I can see the evidence of this survival in how many books I still have. My library is only half the size it once was.

Back when I was single and living in Palm Beach, it was much larger. When I got married, I downsized my collection, letting go of the “lesser” books to make space in our townhouse. Later, when we moved into a bigger home and started a family, it became another challenge: dozens of heavy boxes stacked with books, carried from one life stage into the next.

But while these books have survived different physical spaces, they hold tangible memories and experiences too. They carry my notes, the faint aroma of the places where I found them, and they serve as a kind of time machine, pulling me back into different chapters of my life.

II. Philosophy of sentimental books

Along with my personal experiences, my library also has a rich history and legacy.

I have books from my grandparents, who both passed away in 2005. There are also copies from my father when he was my age. And tucked behind my public-facing books, you’ll find a memorial collection of old family Bibles from different relatives that I cherish dearly—it’s one small part of my hidden library, meant for me alone.

In an age where clutter is something we’re always told to cut away, we risk losing the meaningful mess. Minimalism, for example, comes from a good place. It asks us to simplify, to let go. But in doing so, we can forget the joy of holding onto things that matter.

A library filled with beauty and memories is its own kind of simplicity. It’s a way of expressing the life you’ve lived and the journey you’re still on in one humble space.

When you’re surrounded by beautiful books, you’re hugged by inspiration, encouragement, and a view of your future self.

But a beautiful and sentimental library cannot flourish unintentionally. Like any good garden, it must be planted, nurtured, and fed.

A breathing library contains one of these elements:

• It’s connected to a person or a sentimental time in your life

• The book has a special cover or craftsmanship

• You re-read this book often, and it’s full of your past selves through notes, folds, and tears

• The book holds a story, unknown to you, but precious

III. Categories and examples

As for connections and sentiments, I try to hold onto these books for as long as possible, ideally forever, to be passed down to the next generation.

These are books, for example, that my grandfather owned. I have How to Win Friends and Influence People with his name signed in the cover, and there are small artifacts for me to explore, like folded pages and the occasional wrinkle. There are no notes, but there are quiet signs of his experience, like the broken twigs and faint footsteps left along a trail.

My sentimental books also bring me back to different stages of my life. I have literature from college with my name and notes on the cover, like my copy of Ovid’s Metamorphosis, now laminated to preserve it. Books like The Great Gatsby from middle and high school still have my mother’s handwriting with my name and phone number (smart of her, so I wouldn’t lose my books).

Then there’s the special cover or design in books. Some books just look beautiful, and it’s why I have many of the Barnes & Noble leather-bound collectibles and a wonderful complete edition of Winnie the Pooh with all its artwork.

From the collectible Barnes & Noble copy of the King James Bible

But my favorites are the ones I find while traveling, like the Don Quixote I brought back from Madrid or my Italian Pinocchio from Florence with its beautiful imagery.

These books bring me right back to a specific time and location in my life. They’re more effective than a picture or a video because they’re layered with nuanced experiences that recall all my senses.

I remember walking into a bookstore, for example, when I bought a used leather-bound copy of a Cervantes collection in Ayamonte, Spain. It was a hot day, but the wind blew balloons and toys around the entrance, and I thought some of them would fly away.

My daughter touched some of the books inside, along with stickers and trinkets at the front counter, which made the owner nervously laugh as we talked. After I bought the book, I enjoyed an espresso with soda water and lemon on the side for two hours with my wife, as our two toddlers played in the Plaza de la Laguna in front of us. In the book, you’ll find the receipt and other notes from that day. It’s the closest thing I have to time travel.

Plaza de la Laguna in Ayamonte

In a way, I find these beautiful books merge with the sentimental. And I think that’s only natural. There is truth in beauty, and we can all find it when we encounter it—even when we purchase a book in a used store.

Then there are the books I continue to re-read or reference. I automatically think of my copy of As a Man Thinketh, an essay by James Allen that argues every thought is a seed that grows into who we are today. I have many copies because I give them away, but my main one, now on its third iteration since I gave the previous away when I ran out of extras, is full of dates, highlights, and notes. I use these notes to explore my thinking journey, but it’s also a way for me to dig deeper into the text.

For example, if you imagine reading a book is like climbing a ladder, you can only reach a step or two on the first read. Each additional read brings you further into the depth of the work and increases the value you can hold from it. With notes, you can get there faster and reach higher levels of understanding because you aren’t starting from scratch or relying on a distant memory of your last read.

I also have reference books like dictionaries, massive histories like Cuba: The Pursuit of Freedom, and a collection of New York Times front pages. These serve as wells of information and inspiration for me. Even glancing at them encourages me to think creatively and pursue my goals.

These reference books also serve as conversation pieces with friends and visitors. I’ve had conversations lasting well over an hour in front of my library, sparked by a single book or recollection. Even during video calls, people sometimes point out a particular book, and our conversation begins from there.

Finally, there are books that contain an unknown story. You’ll only find these in used books. When you purchase one, you may notice notes, a chain of ownership, or inscriptions marking birthday gifts, names, and touching messages. There’s a mystery in these books that only the new owner can truly appreciate. This is why I find used books more valuable.

A small inscription within my copy of By-line: Ernest Hemingway

Books containing unknown stories are the ultimate testament to your breathing library. They remind us that these copies don’t just contain a story in printed letters, but also in the people who once held them. It’s a subtle assurance that after you’re gone, some of your books will join other libraries, telling stories—new and old—about their adventures unique to each reader.

IV. Building for the third category

One of my smaller libraries: a floating library with busts of Seneca, Constantine, Michelangelo, and Leonardo da Vinci

These breathing libraries belong to anyone who loves to read. And it’s why I encourage everyone to buy beautiful books, write their names, jot notes, and slip in memorable receipts or papers to continue telling a story for themselves, their families, and the future custodians of remarkable works.

When popular design today pushes us toward minimal things (though lifestyles and social media algorithms suggest otherwise), we can choose instead to focus on memorable things.