I've officially used up all the space on my free flickr account, so I had to go through an elaborate ritual to get these photographs off of my phone and saved onto the hard-drive, just to post this.
I really need to find my camera battery charger. Maybe if I write that a couple thousand more times it'll happen.
I chose the books because they make up some of the more seemly piles in my home. Upon reflection, I'm amused and curious as to what this bookshelf collection says about me as a person. If one can find out the function of the books, even more so: what books are borrowed, from the library or friends? Which have yet to be read, and for how long have they waited? How were they acquired--as text books? Or were they doggedly sought out in the bookstore, paid for with scraped-together change?
This collection of titles haphazardly piled on my shelf tell my story, probably better than going through my sock drawer; though you'd need to see the whole mess of books (including the ones scattered across the western hemisphere I still claim ownership to) to piece together a complete picture of the me-who-is-me.
Caroline felt her old sense of ease with the priest; he never treated her as someone far different from what she was. He treated her not only as a child; not only as an intellectual; not only as a nervy woman; not only as weird; he seemed to assume simply that she was as she was.--Muriel Spark, The Comforters
In a slightly related incident, during a desperate 60-second tidying attempt, I stowed The Complete Plays of Oscar Wilde on the back shelf above the toilet. I caught myself disapproving--then, just as quickly, tickled. How appropriate! Wilde himself would have appreciated the joke.