Patience, dear readers. I’ll address the headline shortly, but first … I’ve bought but haven’t yet read far more books than I could possibly consume over the course of the calendar year, yet every month I add a dozen more to my overstuffed shelves. Technically I have a rule that for, I can purchase a new book – and not a moment sooner. But until there’s no more room on my shelves and no more money in my bank account, this is not a rule I tend to enforce.
I visit the bookshop on a sweltering day in early September. The shop is housed in a comfortable old brick home. The very lovely abode sits on a quiet, shaded by-street in Spring. A quick glimpse of its charming exterior and passersby are likely to assume the property is the definition of normal. It’s not.
As I meander through the maze of books, I try to to identify what “room” of the home I’m in. More often than not, I don’t have a clue. I lose my way several times. At some point I find myself in the aptly named “Lost Room.” From his perch on a comfortable couch, Bruce, the shop dog, monitors my progress. “Where can I find the fiction section, Bruce?” If he knows, he certainly doesn’t tell me.