It's perfectly possible to have too many books

I have recently executed a ruthless book purge and feel much better for the experience

You only have to visit an antiquarian book fair, or watch bibliophiles examining with careful eagerness the contents of cardboard boxes full of dusty volumes at a local auction, to see that too much exposure to books can be harmful. The eyes go first, then the skin takes on the hue and texture of ancient folios (moderate condition, slightly foxed). Finally, the soul itself dries up, normal literary enthusiasm giving way to a lust for acquisition, as if merely possessing a decent edition confers on the owner the wisdom, sensitivity and grace contained in its pages.

Doubtless there has been many a quickening pulse and glittering eye in the book-dealing community at the news that Professor John Bayley is planning to sell his late wife Iris Murdoch's personal library. The collection, which will be on the slab at the London Antiquarian Book Fair early in June, is said to be of particular interest since it records not only the books that were important to Dame Iris, but her own notes and comments in the margins. In a book of Russian language exercises, for example, she wrote, "To become oneself a work of art – what is the use of that? In the end – There is no end. Ends are lived through. Death, as Wittgenstein told us, not."

As for how Murdoch became herself, Professor Bayley plays down the role of books. "Her mind seemed to work independently of her precious library, but at the same time she depended for inspiration on the presence of her books," he has said, announcing the sale.

Doubtless the decision of the professor and his new wife to sell off Dame Iris's precious library on the ground that they need the space will raise a few eyebrows. Not only has Bayley's highly successful accounts of Murdoch's final illness and death made him rather more than the £150,000 he hopes to get for the library, but also one of his recent non-Iris volumes, Hand Luggage, was specifically about the importance of books in a person's life. On this occasion, though, the professor's position is grown-up and sensible. Books do furnish a room but they can also clutter it up terribly.

Once read, they continue to speak to you from the shelves. Some remind you of brief but happy flirtations of the past, a few are enduring passions, but most – let's be honest here – are often simply irritating. This hyped bestseller wasted hours of your life. That "entertainment" turned out to be exploitative tat. The other "comic masterpiece" left you grim-faced.

Then there are all the unread volumes – books sent by publishers anxious for a puff or a plug, those bought in a moment of enthusiasm which did not last long enough for you to read it. There is something resentful about the smooth, uncracked spines of these books. They nag at you as you pass them. They make you feel out of touch, or fraudulent, or simply lazy.

I have recently executed a ruthless book purge and feel much better for the experience. Last year, living in a caravan while a house was built, I more or less took a break from reading anything except the latest issues of Homebuilding and Renovation or The World of Interiors. My books were locked away in storage.

Now that I am under a roof, the value of those months becomes clear. Books which I had always assumed were part of my life suddenly, in their new setting, seem utterly dispensable. I have realised that, while I love reading, the number of books I need to have around me is relatively small. There are the various dictionaries, reference works and cribs that I need for my work, books about racing, hunting and wildlife that I have collected down the years, and a limited amount of fiction, biography and general non-fiction.

But out goes the work of brilliant young things (youth has done very badly in this clear-out), the ghosted musings of actors and comedians, ghastly humorous volumes acquired in the years when I had a sense of humour, worthy children's books kept just in case a book-minded child needed something to read while staying, a huge number of so-what? novels that I have always meant to read but never will.

There is now space on my shelves and the authors whom I treasure – something of an odd bunch which seems to include Greene, Ford Maddox Ford, George Eliot, Lorrie Moore, Roth, SE Hinton, Kundera, Mark Leyner, Theroux, Tolstoy, Martin Amis, Updike, William Donaldson, Elmore Leonard, Geoff Dyer, AG Macdonell and Flaubert – breathe more easily now that so many of their lesser rivals are on their way to the local auction.

Obviously, the priorities of Professor Bayley and his new wife will be different to mine but there is a tough-minded wisdom in their conclusion that merely possessing books does not bring happiness, and that the precious library of one person, however loved and eminent she may be, can never speak as eloquently to others.

terblacker@aol.com