Of ideas embalmed in books, Joyce wrote in Ulysses, “They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will.” The vitality, the urgency, of reading books is hard to comprehend for an uninterested observer.
Before the first dish is (accidentally) shattered, I promise myself this time it’s going to be different, this time I will be leaving this space with fewer boxes than I brought in. It’s almost cute how sincerely I believe that I’ve finally managed to outgrow my hoarding ways, just by willing it to be true.