Let us begin with a confession: I own approximately 500 unread physical books. If I added the ebooks and audiobooks quietly haunting my devices, the collection would resemble a modest resurrection of the Library of Constantinople — only without the fire, though the chaos is comparable. The operative word here is unread. The tally slipped out of my control once every surface, shelf, and digital folder began overflowing with titles I hadn’t read — and absolutely refused to part with.
The TBR list occupies a complex little chamber in the reader’s psyche. To the casual observer, it may appear to be a monument to procrastination or intellectual overreach. But the unread book is not a shameful secret; it is a noble companion, an emblem of humility and possibility. If books are humankind’s best friends, then what do unread books become? A reminder of tasks left undone — or a reservoir of hope for days not yet lived and worlds not yet entered?
This period is, after all, the season when reading communities have their own version of Spotify Wrapped on Goodreads. Readers proudly display how many pages they’ve devoured, genres they’ve toured, and badges they’ve unlocked. This annual celebration of quantified reading often portrays the unread book as the guilty party, impatiently clearing its throat.
Meanwhile, BookTok aesthetics have ushered in an era of deckled edges, sprayed edges, limited editions, matte finishes, and specially commissioned artwork — objects so beautiful they practically demand to be purchased. Their simple prose, romantic undertones, and morally grey protagonists who burn worlds for love entice readers deeper into new obsessions. And often, those obsessions arrive home only to nest comfortably in the growing TBR pile.
Every book you finish might be a feather in your cap, but every addition to your TBR can feel like your past self giving you a pointed nudge and whispering: Procrastinator, dilettante, fool who thought you’d master nihilism in an evening. Yet, the truth is simpler. The ever-expanding pile is merely a clash between enthusiasm and the finite realities of time, energy, and attention.
Before you judge my initial confession, remember something important: book collecting and book reading are two separate hobbies. Entirely. Enthusiastically. Proudly so.
The Western obsession with rushing through life — optimising schedules, hacking routines, and refusing to spend a single moment unproductively — makes many readers feel inadequate for adding titles to their shelves faster than they can read them. To feel shame over a vast TBR pile is to assume we should consume all knowledge at once, which is both unrealistic and a little intellectually greedy. A shelf stocked only with books already read becomes an echo chamber of who you once were — your younger, narrower, arguably less interesting self. Unread books gently counter this hubris. Wisdom is a lifelong journey, not a race.
Our obsession with “finishing” books is a concession to industrial logic — the same impulse that urges us to optimise our morning routine and turn our hobbies into side hustles. Reading is not factory labour. There are no performance reviews for your consumption of Brandon Sanderson or William Shakespeare.
The Japanese, in contrast, offer the comfort of Tsundoku: the practice of acquiring books simply to own them, with no pressure to devour them. Under this philosophy, you don’t have to conquer a book; it can patiently wait at your bedside. A new volume of Russian literature, absurdist philosophy, or even a fluffy romance is not just paper and ink. It serves as a valuable investment in your future self. Every unread book represents a version of you who sees a little differently, knows a little more, and has finally discovered what all the hype was about regarding that one Turkish novel everyone swore would change your life.
Francis Bacon wrote that “some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and a few to be chewed and digested.” One suspects he might have added, ‘and many are simply to be present.’
Nothing deflates intellectual arrogance like standing before a wall of titles you lovingly purchased but never opened. It is challenging to present oneself as an expert when a dozen spines subtly suggest, “You are not even familiar with the introduction, dear.” In this way, the unread book becomes a philosophical chaperone — ensuring you never confuse owning knowledge with understanding it.
So yes, I admit it freely: I am strongly, unapologetically biased. Questioning the value of unread books to a collector is — to put it mildly — not the wisest plan. My growing mountain of unread volumes is not a burden but a companion. It provides me hope, motivation, and an unreasonable amount of joy. A shelf full of unread books is not a graveyard of abandoned intellectual promises. It is an altar to potential.
After all, what is a life without something still waiting to be read?