excessive bookshelf

Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.

The odd thing about people who had many books was how they always wanted more.

Books are love letters (or apologies) passed between us, adding a layer of conversation beyond our spoken words.

Books act like a developing fluid on film. That is, they bring into consciousness what you didn’t know you knew.

We’re all strangers connected by what we reveal, what we share, what we take away—our stories. I guess that’s what I love about books—they are thin strands of humanity that tether us to one another for a small bit of time, that make us feel less alone or even more comfortable with our aloneness, if need be.