THE HUNDRED-AND-FORTY-FOURTH PAGE

In such a situation one cannot judge sanity, but I was coming to believe that the books were taking on a life of their own, and it wasn’t some kind of new-fangled computer-generated stuff.

A large, heavy book struck my shoulder. It could have been the single volume Shakespeare, maybe the Shaw. It fell from a shelf near the ceiling. I realized that if it had hit my head, I would be unconscious, but the Shaw or the Shakespeare was not in a strict falling pattern. It seemed to be pushing me aside as it moved forward.

Moving on, it collided against the door and bounced back toward me. If it was so keen to get out of the house, it probably was prudent for me to get the Hell out.

I felt for the lock and had great difficulty turning the latch I had opened thousands of times. Even after throwing the latch the door could not be opened because a pile of fallen books blocked the way. Perhaps another person would have kicked them away or seized them from the floor and thrown them aside. That was not my way. Condition, condition, condition.

More rose in the blocked piles as I stood dumbly in the doorway. I suppose I could have been clinically described as in a state of paralysis, perhaps stupefaction.