I like looking at my books and often spend several minutes in the evening running my gaze over them.  Most of them I haven’t read but the possibility that I will read them is deeply exciting. (Proust is also excited to know that one day I will open his book.)

Right now, as my house is undergoing a delightful transition, my books are spilling out into the dining room and the bathroom and I follow their inexplicable meandering with lustful eyes.