By way of illustrating what I’m grateful for today, I
give you…everything I need for snuggling in for the night:
The pile of books on the left comprises several I own,
including my two most recent acquisitions, on the British Commandos of World
War II. Look, sometimes a bit of light garroting and timed explosives is just
what a girl needs before dropping off to sleep.
The stack on the right is books I currently have checked
out from the various library systems here in the Valley They Call Silicon.
Depending on the subject matter, I plough through two to five per week. This bunch
includes a couple of Judge Dee mysteries (which I don’t particularly recommend),
the new biography of Elsa Schiaparelli (ditto), several histories (World War I, and
the Gurkhas), a collection of Dick Cavett's columns for the NY Times and a deconstruction of wit.
Many of the books I read have been recommended by
friends. About a third of the present occupants of the surface came to me that
way. Several—permanent fixtures beside my bed—are gifts, to which I return
often by way of connecting with the friend who gave them.
Then there are scraps of paper I use for jotting down
pithy phrases or reminders of things I need to do. (Actually, they’re from the
Santa Clara County Library; they’re what mark the books they’re holding for
pick-up. Each one is a third of letter-sized paper, and they’re only written on
one side. Perfect for scratch paper, as my thoughts are not generally
Dostoyevskian in length. Or, now that I think of it, in depth. Um.)
And the bookmarks—almost all of which are also from
friends, although I noticed one from Hatchard’s Booksellers, marking their 200th
anniversary.
There was a time when I didn’t actually need no stinkin’
bookmark; I could remember where I’d left off when I returned to a book. But
that time, alas, is long past.
Anyway—I’m grateful for the pleasure that having stacks
of books right by my bed gives me, and for the connections they continually
weave with my friends.
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