But this is beside the point.
The point is that afterward we went to IKEA, about which I had once written but never seen. It made quite an impression, and although I have yet to decide whether to refer to the enormity of the enormousness of the place, I do know that we returned home three hours later with both a desk and bookshelf. My yin, in her typically insightful cleverness, was quick to point out the irony of purchasing a proper writing desk three days after I turned in my thesis.
The point is that everything is put together now, and all of the books that have been trapped inside the closet have finally been restored to their proper place in the living room. There's something inspiring about a shelf full of books: some are read, some are unread, some contain that mystical quality that results in becoming "well-read."
There are worlds in those books, universes tucked away in their binding, tiny cosmoses lurking in the typeset: heaven in Helvetica, nirvana in New Roman, paradise in Sans-serif.
There are notes scribbled in the margins, tracks leading back to the people we thought we were when we read them before. A used book bears witness to our past curiosities and desires, our fears and predilections, our questions and the answers we once presumed to know.
And, for all of those who have ever lost a library, we know how books can mean more than words can ever say...
The point is that afterward we went to IKEA, about which I had once written but never seen. It made quite an impression, and although I have yet to decide whether to refer to the enormity of the enormousness of the place, I do know that we returned home three hours later with both a desk and bookshelf. My yin, in her typically insightful cleverness, was quick to point out the irony of purchasing a proper writing desk three days after I turned in my thesis.
This is also beside the point.
The point is that everything is put together now, and all of the books that have been trapped inside the closet have finally been restored to their proper place in the living room. There's something inspiring about a shelf full of books: some are read, some are unread, some contain that mystical quality that results in becoming "well-read."
There are worlds in those books, universes tucked away in their binding, tiny cosmoses lurking in the typeset: heaven in Helvetica, nirvana in New Roman, paradise in Sans-serif.
There are notes scribbled in the margins, tracks leading back to the people we thought we were when we read them before. A used book bears witness to our past curiosities and desires, our fears and predilections, our questions and the answers we once presumed to know.
And, for all of those who have ever lost a library, we know how books can mean more than words can ever say...
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