About the accumulation of books, this is the best I’ve read. As posted by Novel Nerds.
“Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired (by passionate devotion to them) produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can peradventure read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity … we cherish books even if unread, their mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access, reassurance.” — A. Edward Newton
Photo credit: @tillylovesbooks
This is so true as to at times be pathetic, this star-struck gazing at the shelves. Sometimes I’ve just sat and reveled in, admired the books for what I know they contain. The words they hold. Their mysteries and the memories. I had never considered the reach toward infinity. Eternity maybe, but not infinity.
That seems mainly true of all great or fine—or even just purposeful pursuits—yes? Sometimes I know the next note, sometimes not. When not there’s a flatness to it, a lack of energy. But we mere mortals must plod along.
Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters—sometimes very hastily—but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.