IT IS A sorry bookshelf that is filled only with the books you have read. That is no longer a bookshelf, but an archive, only a memory away from standing as dead history. To bring that bookshelf alive, what you need to do is build your atemporal, ever-shifting self into its recesses—the books you once wanted to read, but no longer do, brushing shoulders with the books you insist you will get around to reading, both envying the prestige of...
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