Three large boxes of books have just arrived at my door as the outcome of my most recent wander through a book fair in Bangkok last month. When stacked together with the ones I already had, anyone passing by might think I am about to open a bookshop or a public library.

They wouldn’t be entirely wrong. I am building a library.

I’m not the only one. Many people in the world take joy in having shelves heavy with books at home. For me, it isn’t just about reading but everything that surrounds books, from the act of writing to the process of printing and binding, the smell of paper and the sight of spines lined up neatly (or piled up in glorious chaos). Above all, each book is a singular creation: a fragment of thought, a unique work of art shaped by the author’s journey, inspiration, and knowledge.

There is something strangely magnetic about the atmosphere of libraries, bookshops, and archives. A room filled with books, whether meticulously organised or stacked to the ceiling, has always been part of my dream home. I must confess, however, that I am not an insatiable reader. Averaging about one book a month, I still consider myself fortunate in an age where free hours so easily slip into the glow of a mobile screen.

By now, I’ve lost count of how many books there are. A rough glance suggests well over a thousand, with more arriving all the time. The gap between the number of books I own and the number I have yet to read only grows wider. This ever-growing pile of beloved unread books is technically known as an “antilibrary.” I first came across the word in a magazine and thought it was meant as a teasing nickname. But as I read more of how writers described their own antilibraries, I discovered something profound.

Beyond the aesthetics and atmosphere, standing before a wall of unread books makes me feel small. It reminds me how vast and deep the ocean of knowledge really is, far beyond what a single life can take in fully. And I think anyone who experiences this feeling often enough could never become rigid, aggressive, or arrogant. The antilibrary humbles us. It keeps us awake, excited, and alive to the fact that there is always more to learn.

Then I find myself a justified reason to keep buying books… in fact, building a(n) (anti)library.

Sela was founded with the spirit of a “writer’s hotel” at its heart. The library, therefore, has always been one of its essential rooms. From my own experience, a hotel with a library carries a particular atmosphere: serious yet warm, humble yet dignified, still yet reassuring. And that impression begins from the very first step inside the hotel — even before a guest sets foot in the library itself.