ulgence, one t my fatitles o. Yet in reality— my faty and mine; I don’t pretend reality is t of t is a repository of books, a place of safety for all tten, t at present no one seems to . And it is a place to read.

    A is for Austen, B is for Bronte, C is for C in tization at time as augo spell. I learned to e too: copying out names and titles onto index cards t are still ty years later. t ter scer e university. It was my life.

    My fat a book into my ead,  me roam and graze, making my oe selections. I read gory tales of oric  nineteentury parents t able for c stories t ; I read accounts of arduous travel treacaken by spinsters in crinolines, and I ;ad iquette intended for young ladies of good family; I read books ures and books ; books in Englis understand, ories in my  words. Books. Books. And books.

    At sc all to myself. ts of arco my essays, but my teacook takes, to eradicate times a ory lesson ouc random seams of knoimes I stayed mum, dumbstruck by tary collision of t irely apart.

    In beto o our more distant clients. At ten I ted to o t office. At eleven I relieved my mot against ty in in “old books,” so idious feater, igrying not to inime to time tir up a cloud of imaginary dust, and sably sockings on te t, able malevolence of books,  o be positioned beo do ting. It o come out to ter t.

    me looking for lost books. e designated items lost o t missing from tful position on t olen but, more likely, t in tminded broo ceiling housands of volumes.