Trouble in paradise

I have a small problem.

Since I dislike the oppressive walls of books that so many readers seem inexplicably to adore, I keep my books in the wardrobe. Beneath that shelf are eight drawers that look like this:

The thing is, I've run out of space. And since I started Wolf Hall, oh, aeons ago, I've barely looked in this cupboard but to add books (bought, borrowed) or to remove them to lend to others.

Not enough, clearly; I've added more than I've loaned, and now I'm not sure what to do. I literally cannot stand having books crowding about the walls of my rooms -- the rustling pages, the riot of spines, the squeak of cover on cover, the endless hubbub of their mingling ideas unsettling the quiet afternoons.

The cupboard next to this one has linen in it. I'm thinking of sacrificing the sheets for more book space. It's spring, after all, and the hammock is up. Who needs sheets? With books, on the other hand, confinement is entirely necessary; were they allowed out en masse, anything could happen. Whatever it was, it would be the end of my silent paradise.

It would be the end of silence, full stop.