Remember books?

Stanley Fish, a professor of humanities and law at Florida International University in Miami, Florida and the author of thirteen books, has a column in The New York Times about books, and the loss thereof:

I have sold my books. Not all of them, but most of them. I held on to the books I might need while putting the finishing touches on a manuscript that is now with my publisher. I also kept the books I will likely need when I begin my next project in the fall. But the books that sustained my professional life for fifty years— books by and about Milton, Spenser, Shakespeare, Skelton, Sidney, Herbert, Marvell, Herrick, Donne, Jonson, Burton, Browne, Bacon, Dryden, and Hobbes— are gone (I watched them being literally wheeled out the door), and now I look around and see acres of empty white bookshelves.
The ostensible reason for this de-acquisition is a move from a fair-sized house to a much smaller apartment. It is true, as Anthony Powell said in a title, that books do furnish a room, but in this case, too many books, too little room. But the deeper reason is that it was time. What I saw on the shelves was work to which I would never return, the writings of fellow critics whom I will no longer engage, interpretive dilemmas someone else will have to address. The conversations I had participated in for decades have now gone in another direction (indeed, in several other directions), and I have neither the time nor, if truth be told, the intellectual energy required to catch up. Farewell to all that. So long, it’s been good to know you. I’m sure you’ll do fine without me.
In the hours and days following the exodus of the books, I monitored myself for a post-mortem (please excuse the hyperbole) reaction. Would I feel regret? Nostalgia? Panic? Relief? I felt nothing. What should have been a momentous event barely registered as I moved on to what seemed the more important task of choosing a new carpet. I was reminded of what a colleague who had left a university after twenty-plus years replied when I asked him if it was difficult to do. He said: “It was like checking out of a motel.”
Actually, I’ve had stronger emotional responses to checking out of some motels than I had to the departure of the record of my professional life, a record that includes voluminous marginal notes in many of the volumes. I had always thought that I could return to my annotated copies of familiar texts and pick up where I left off. That fantasy, I now see, was part and parcel of the core fantasy that I would just go on forever, defending old positions, formulating new ones, attending annual conferences, contributing to essay collections, speaking at various universities, teaching the same old courses, confidently answering the same old questions.
I’m not going to go on forever. I avoid this realization, even as I voice it. I say: “I’m not going to go on forever” and, at the same time, I’m busily signing new contracts, accepting new speaking invitations, thinking up new courses, hungering after new accolades. My books are clearer-eyed than I am. They exited the stage without fuss and will, one hopes, take up residence in someone else’s library where they will be put to better uses than to serve as items in a museum, which is what they were when they furnished my rooms.
Behind these musings is a word I can barely utter: “retirement”. I thought seriously about retiring in 1998. That would have been “early” retirement. Instead I took an administrative job as dean of a college, and traded in early retirement for endlessly deferred retirement. But friends and colleagues, many of them younger, are retiring all around me, and when one does I pester him or her with questions. What made you decide? Was it hard? How’s it going? What do you do all day? I put the same questions to strangers in the hope that I will hear something that will persuade me that retirement is the way to go, or, alternatively, that retirement is not only the simulacrum of death, but hastens death’s arrival on his pale horse.
Lately I’ve run out of strangers, and so I turn to you or at least to those of you who are of a certain age. Have you done it? Are you thinking about it? Have I, perhaps, taken the first step toward retiring by retiring my books? Is there a next step I should be taking? Any and all advice received gratefully.

Rico says having retired early, and involuntarily, he highly recommends it. But, since there's no good place to sell books these days, he's hanging on to some of his library...