The perfect, beautiful one that has a private shrine somewhere near the top.
The brand new copy you pull out just to sniff.
The one that always finds a way to tip over.
The one(s) with the coffee stains.
The one with the awkward height that stands out like a pink lemming.
The mass market paperback that never looks good anywhere.
The one you haven’t read and never will but looks nice so you keep it.
The one with the ugly spine that you try to cover with a Funko Pop.
The one that’s part of a magnanimously uniform series (sigh of satisfaction).
The yard sale classic that makes you feel more sophisticated because it has fancy squiggles on the spine.
The series that has to go lying down because some nincompoop at the publisher decided to print them 1/4 inch taller than your bookshelf height.
That one installment in the series that you own in a different edition so it doesn’t look like all the rest and basically says ‘lol what’ every time you frown at it.
The one you’re embarrassed to own but haven’t taken it off the shelf for some reason.
The one that’s the only book on the shelf of a genre you don’t read but you kinda have to keep it because it was a gift.
The tome you keep handy in case you ever need to knock out a moose from a second story window.
The one that came late to the party so it has to lie awkwardly across the tops of the others.
The one that you own only because Booktube hyped it (even though it sucks).
The Tolkien copy you’ve never actually finished but you pull out and dust off every time you need a classy Instagram filler.
The one with the missing dust jacket that still looks good because it has shiny gold letters on the black spine.
The paperback you’ve read so many times that the spine looks like a 1:1000 scale model of the Himalayas.
The one you’ve kept since you were a kid and now the pages are yellowed and it smells like good memories.
The one that’s missing from the series because cousin Gustav “borrowed” it three years ago and you hunted him down but gave up when you lost his scent in a cold mountain spring somewhere south of Zurich.
I’m coming for you, cousin Gustav.