 Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Oh to retreat to the womb of the library where the air is colored with sun-motes and thick with the scent of bindings and paper, and where reassurances live in their seeming permanence on shelves carrying on like Atlas. The spring sun enters through the west window and casts a transforming glow over the rosewood cases, turning their trunks into auburn jewels.Like a sea maiden calling from the near shore the leather couch sings as if to trap me in her feather caress, into which I could slump in sublime comfort and never escape. I mean to retrieve the Ratzinger volumes and consume them in one long text-fest while not missing anything of the hundred television programs that, like Cinderella, will expire at midnight. • • • • •
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