THE HUNDRED-AND-FORTY-FIFTH PAGE
The notion of opening a door might be viewed by some as an invitation to life; I saw it as death, abandoning the fallen volumes to their torn jackets, cracked spines, bent pages. We were constant companions, my books and I. They were showing me the way out of the dark room. I should not leave them behind. I couldn’t help it; I grabbed an armful. I was crying. For all I knew I was bloodied by the heavier tomes which seemed to be in a leading position. Tears and blood are not good for books.
My exit was hastened by another league of books, heavier ones: shiny-paged Michelangelo, Bosch, Rockwell, Warhol. My own books were pushing me out.