The books lie dog-eared, creased and dusty, collected in cardboard boxes pulled and bashed and torn asunder. I sneeze as I sift through the inter-locking layers of paperbacks, historical, academical and miscellaneous. Some are better preserved than others. Down, deeper down I dig, uncovering forgotten or mislaid texts. Pencilled notes, and inky blue dots, NB and underlined paragraphs mapping out those pieces of academic interest and the smithereens of my own personal taste.
I pull out Schnitzler's Traumnovelle and Dürrenmatt's Der Richter und sein Henker, and an anthology of post-war poetry. I find 'Schweigen' by Eugen Gombringer and read it quietly to myself. I raise Ulysses from the pit, and sigh because like many others I have not yet finished it. There are so many books here neglected; half-read and half-lived. I vow to remedy this situation and pull yet another book from the box before rearranging everything as it were into interlocking layers, folding over the cardboard flaps and pushing the heavy, bulging box back under my bed. I place my booty on the chest of drawers with the best intention of reading it after my I have finished my current conquest but in all likelihood it will probably be passed around the room, resting on different surfaces for a time before it ends up on top of my wardrobe gathering dust or back into the busted paper chest buried underneath my bed. It's a terrible fate either way.
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