There was a strange aroma that blended into the air. A silent whisper of ideas and thoughts filled it with a sense
of wordy claustrophobia. Perhaps a ‘good phobia’? I use phobia because I feel that there is no better word
to express this overwhelming sense anxiety whipped together with a feeling of completeness. Forget about parts that aren’t wholes, wholes that are part of other wholes, a place of books is a place of ideas. Some of these ideas are dim, many completely wrong and misplaced but they are after all someone’s ideas. I really liked feeling the books and it was at that moment that I worried so much about the loss of the paperback novel. Borders or any book store would be reduced to a hundred by hundred square feet of bits and bytes- a world where the dot on the i and the cross on the t is an extra zero or one. Somehow I think the world is better understood in light of the absence of things and not their presence. The presence always represents a sureness of thought and emotion. The insistence that things are the way they are.
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