Discarding books

 I've been thinking about running executable torrent downloads by waiting a month or more before trying so that any malware will have had time to be found and blocked by Windows security.

That's actually not a bad instinct, though it's not a guarantee.

A lot of malware is discovered quickly after release, especially if it's embedded in a popular torrent that many people download. Microsoft Defender, antivirus vendors, and services such as VirusTotal receive samples from users and researchers, signatures get updated, and detections improve over time. Waiting a month means you're benefiting from that collective scrutiny.

The limitation is that malware doesn't always get detected. Some malicious programs remain undetected for months or years, particularly if they are distributed in small numbers or are designed to avoid signature-based detection. Also, a program that is merely "unwanted" rather than overtly malicious may never trigger antivirus warnings.

For executable downloads, I would think of waiting as just one layer of defense. Other useful layers include:

    Downloading software with a long history and many comments from users.

    Checking whether the file's hash matches what others report.

    Scanning with multiple engines (for example, through VirusTotal) before running it.

    Running it first in an isolated environment such as a virtual machine.

    Keeping Windows and Defender fully updated.

    Being particularly suspicious of cracks, keygens, and modified installers, which have historically been some of the highest-risk torrent downloads.

Given your setup and the fact that you've mentioned using Windows 11 and generally being fairly cautious, I'd say your "wait a month" rule probably reduces risk substantially compared with running a brand-new torrent executable the day it appears. It reminds me of how some investors avoid IPOs for a while—letting others discover the problems first.

One thing I'd be curious about: are these mostly open-source utilities, old commercial programs, games, or something else? The risk profile varies quite a bit by category.

I wouldn't utilize a crack for ethical reasons anyway.  I don't know what the other two you mention are.

A crack is a modified version of a program or a patch that removes copy protection, license checks, or activation requirements. If someone downloads a paid program without paying for it, a crack is often involved.

A keygen ("key generator") is a program that creates fake serial numbers or license keys to fool software into thinking it has been legally licensed.

Both have long been notorious sources of malware because users are already bypassing normal distribution channels and security checks. Cybercriminals know that people seeking pirated software are often willing to disable antivirus warnings or ignore suspicious behavior.

If you're downloading software ethically, you may never encounter either one. They're most commonly discussed in piracy circles.

For legitimate software obtained through torrents, the main concern is usually not cracks or keygens but rather whether the file you're getting is genuinely what it claims to be. Open-source projects sometimes distribute torrents for large downloads, and some Linux distributions do as well. In those cases, checking digital signatures or cryptographic hashes published by the developer can provide much stronger assurance than simply waiting a month.

Your idea of waiting still has merit because it allows time for reputation to develop. A torrent that's been available for six weeks with many users and no reports of trouble is generally less risky than one uploaded yesterday. I wouldn't rely on that alone, but it is a sensible filter.

Given your comments about ethics, it sounds as though your concern is less "How do I get software for free?" and more "How do I safely evaluate software from less familiar sources?" That's a very different—and much safer—problem.

That image says a lot about the difference between a collection of things and a place designed around a relationship with knowledge. A Victorian-style library was never just a storage system for books. The globe, dictionary on its stand, illustrated Bible, glass-fronted shelves, and the furniture were all part of a cultural statement: this is a room for learning, reflection, and conversation.

It is understandable that you feel a sense of loss about it being left behind. Objects like that carry more than their practical function. A large globe is not just a map; it represents curiosity about the world. An unabridged dictionary is not just a reference book; it represents respect for language. A Bible on a stand, whether or not one is religious, is a recognition of the historical and artistic importance of the text. The room itself becomes a kind of autobiography.

There is also an interesting contrast with your digital "warehouse." The digital collection is enormously more searchable and accessible, but it lacks the physical presence and atmosphere. A file on a drive cannot quite replace the feeling of walking into a room where the surroundings themselves invite a certain kind of thought.

On the other hand, the fact that you remember the room so vividly means it is not simply gone. People often underestimate how much of a place is carried in memory: the arrangement, the purpose, the associations. And some of those elements have clearly followed you. Your interest in astronomy, classical music, literature, history, and preserving information all sound like the same impulse that created that library in the first place.

I wonder if the sadness is partly not about the books themselves, but about that room representing a chapter of your life—a physical expression of a person who valued learning and wanted to surround himself with it. The digital archive is a very modern continuation of the same instinct, just without the Victorian furniture.

Well, you know, it's impossible to discard a book.

That sentiment has been expressed by many devoted readers, and there is something almost instinctive behind it. A book feels different from many other objects because it represents stored human thought. Throwing away a chair is disposing of a manufactured object; throwing away a book can feel like discarding someone's ideas, imagination, or a piece of cultural memory.

There is also a strange contradiction with books: they are among the easiest things to replace in one sense, because the text may exist in thousands of copies, yet each individual copy can feel irreplaceable. The wear on the cover, notes in the margins, a bookmark left inside, the smell of the pages—all of that makes that copy part of a personal history.

Libraries have always struggled with this. Even great institutions have to weed collections because space and preservation resources are limited. The practical librarian's view is that a book has a life cycle: acquire, use, preserve, and sometimes pass along. The emotional reader's view is closer to "but what if someone needs it someday?" Those two perspectives have been arguing for centuries.

Digital collections create a funny reversal. You can preserve the contents of thousands of books without taking up any room, but many people still feel a stronger attachment to the physical object. A scan of a first edition is not the same thing as holding the first edition.

Given your Victorian library description, I suspect the hardest part was never just the number of books. It was that each one represented a possible conversation with the future: someone might open this someday and find something important. That is a very librarian-like instinct, even if you do not spend your time cataloging shelves.

Well I had a rule back then never to buy a new book until I had read, or at least partly read and then abandoned (sometimes they aren't worth finishing) the last book I had bought.

That is actually a remarkably disciplined rule for someone who loves books. It recognizes a common trap among readers: the temptation to confuse acquiring knowledge with absorbing knowledge.

Your rule also acknowledges something important that many people feel guilty about: not every book deserves to be finished. Abandoning a book after giving it a fair try is not necessarily failure; it is a form of judgment. Time is limited, and a book that does not reward the reader is competing with countless others that might.

There is a nice balance in your old practice:

    The collector in you could still acquire books.

    The reader in you required that the acquisitions earn their place.

    The editor in you was allowed to say, "This isn't worth continuing."

It also probably kept the library more meaningful. A shelf where every book represents at least an encounter with you has a different character from a shelf of untouched acquisitions.

The interesting thing is that your current digital habits seem like a variation on the same theme. You may collect far more because the cost and space constraints are different, but you still browse, discover, and actually use things from the collection. The old rule was about controlling physical accumulation; the modern equivalent might be making sure the archive remains a source of discovery rather than just a pile.

I also like the phrase "partly read and then abandoned." Experienced readers often have a large invisible category of books that taught them something before they were put down. A history book might have one chapter that was fascinating but the rest repetitive; a novel might have a brilliant premise but fail in execution. Finishing is not always the measure of value. Sometimes a book's contribution is simply that it made you think for a while.