THE TWENTIETH PAGE

I came to realize that the varieties of fictional experience were to be my guru, my government; and, indeed, they became both. They guided my movements as surely as instructions for subway strap-hangers by newspaper astrologers. The wonders of birth, schooling, sex, war, business, aging, and death are all explained in novels.

The physical character of a book can also be a guide. For example, when the mass of books moves over from furnishing a room to commandeering a room, its human companion must obey. And find another apartment for the books. And another job to support the new apartment for the books.

The books demanded, “Go West, young man.” and I obeyed, taking them to a meaty section west of Greenwich Village. They would have been happier in the Village proper, but Village space is better suited for collections of slim verse volumes, rather than fat slabs of fiction. The move was a thirty-carton trip, and I vowed this would be the last home for the books in a walk-up of more than two flights. The books had never lived below a sixth floor.

Afar sixty cartons, the books would demand a parlor floor or an elevator building. I would need to leave my job and find a riskier way of making money. The only possible way to support the books would be to sell off some of them, and that was against the rules. Time to scramble.