[Via Negativa] I walked through dimly lit stacks chanting an LC call number like the name of a long-gone lover, rustling through the fallen pages which were already up above my ankles. This rain will go on for months. When it stops, the sky will reach all the way to the ground: an appalling brightness.
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Harrumph. -- p.
[Feathers of Hope (Numenius)] Oh, to journey to the great bookstores of the world...
[Hoarded Ordinaries] As cruel fate would have it, I've never had enough room for books. When I lived with my parents in Ohio, I was a mad collector of dust: my bookshelves were filled with, yes, books, and model horses, and knicknacks of every stripe. Under the bed, I had boxes of bones: owl pellets, scavenged rodent jaws, a whole and entire deer skull. Crammed in my closet were scrapbooks full of clippings, stamps, bottlecaps. If it could be held, captured, or scavenged, I found a way to collect it. And if it had pages that could be turned, I wanted to read it, own it, hoard it.
[Beginner's Mind] There are books in every room of our house. I've had to take art work off the wall to make room for bookcases. On many of the bookcases the books are stacked two deep. Suffice it to say our house resembles a library.