Around the narrow circuit of the room
Breast-high the books I love range file on file;
And when, day-weary, I would rest awhile,
As once again slow falls the gathering gloom
Upon the world, I love to pass my hand
Along their serried ranks, and silent stand
In breathless heark’ning to their silent speech.
With rev’rent hand I touch the back of each
Of these my books. How much of their dear selves—
The hand that held the pen, the brain that wrought
The subtle fancies on these pages caught—
Have men immortal left upon my shelves!
~ Charles Washington Coleman (1862–1932), Of My Books, c.1893
Blissed out book lover, reader, scribbler from way back, books mysteriously find a spot on my desk, the dining table, coffee table, and heaped on my bedside table. On the rare occasion I spring clean and sort out the bookshelf, I pass them forward, a practice I should cease immediately.
Several weeks ago I rummaged through my books in search of an Enid Blyton book I had since childhood.
Then I remembered.
It had been passed forward. I’m sure it’s sitting safe and well on a bookshelf of another blissed-out book lover.
I read across genres, at the moment I’m reading fiction as I’m writing more of it, because I find just about everything interesting (more on my Book page)