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I was looking for my Birds Of The World book and found it high up on a bookcase above my bed. I hooked it with the end of my walking stick and managed to bring it down. It fell in a cloud of dust--I'm embarrassed to say I don't remember how long it's been since I dusted up there.
Along with my Birds book, other books tumbled down with it. After vacuuming and coughing and sneezing and wiping everything down, I found a trove of good books that had been stashed up there. Nabokov's Lolita, Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago, Melville's Moby Dick, a collection of Chekov's short stories, the complete works of Shakespeare, bound and tied with a ribbon--it had been a gift. I pulled down Dante's Inferno, a collection of Dickens; and The Canterbury Tales.
Lots of good reading there. Instead of going to the Book Rack today looking for something to read, I'm going to re-read some of these treasured books. The latest John Grisham is gonna just have to wait awhile.
Susil
