re: #427 Obdicut

My bookshelves creak. Stuffed to the gills with words, books of every shape, chapbooks, blue books, books who’s covers I replaced with duct tape. The only kind of book I never own more than a few of are books I haven’t read hyet.

I find books I’ve lost for years wedged behind other books. Books are piled on tables, books are in boxes in closets. There is no room without a bookshelf. Removing one from a stack is a significant engineering challenge.

I sell old books and buy new books and the colors on the shelves change, over time. That would make lovely stop-action photography.

I love falling asleep with my face on a book. It’s from my childhood. Reading until the words swim and your eyes shut. Dreams spun out of books, rising from the page and into your head without benefit of eyes.

Harlan Ellison’s retort to people who ask if he’s read all those zillions of books in his house is “Of course not! What would I want with a bunch of books I’ve already read?”