I see, I accidentally created an ambiguous figure above; the biblioBIbulean who may for all I know, also know how to walk Streets, who knows?
Speaking of, one of my alltime fav. libraries consisted almost entirely of an ancient monastery Library (beautifully leatherbound, starting with some small 17th century volumes but also containing a complete, illustrated Diderot Encyclopaedia and other now negliGIble lightweight literature for the lady) that the initial owner had bought, literally, off the street; where it was designed to become filling for a road.
Just like many of the books this humble household holds were found on the street, quickly, as seen from the Windows of the last flat when the brocante resided just below while the place St Michel was having its feet done. Only the other day did I talk to Mata(moros; not his fault or choice as family name;) the dandy antiquarian about our mutual resources... whereby we invariably drifted over to islands in the rain what with the arguable lisibility of Messrs. Joyce et consortes because one youngster came by to inform us of how the later but equally late M. Kerouac ignored commata and other imponderabilities due to overdoing on enthusiasm but I said, there is something to say for Loos' flapper journals but also for M. O'Brien not to even mention Herr Sterne whose words on the general stickiness of things I used to have posted below a selfie made by someone else where I balanced upon a barstool:
Gravity, a mysterious carriage of the body to conceal the defects of the mind that was at least attributed to said gentleman but makes me Wonder, how he knew?
I can't throw away books, not even tatty pockets, they must be given away and never burnt barbariously but I sort of like this wall despite worrying about afterwards, as one does when they come down...
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-10-05 08:12 am (UTC)Speaking of, one of my alltime fav. libraries consisted almost entirely of an ancient monastery Library (beautifully leatherbound, starting with some small 17th century volumes but also containing a complete, illustrated Diderot Encyclopaedia and other now negliGIble lightweight literature for the lady) that the initial owner had bought, literally, off the street; where it was designed to become filling for a road.
Just like many of the books this humble household holds were found on the street, quickly, as seen from the Windows of the last flat when the brocante resided just below while the place St Michel was having its feet done.
Only the other day did I talk to Mata(moros; not his fault or choice as family name;) the dandy antiquarian about our mutual resources... whereby we invariably drifted over to islands in the rain what with the arguable lisibility of Messrs. Joyce et consortes because one youngster came by to inform us of how the later but equally late M. Kerouac ignored commata and other imponderabilities due to overdoing on enthusiasm but I said, there is something to say for Loos' flapper journals but also for M. O'Brien not to even mention Herr Sterne whose words on the general stickiness of things I used to have posted below a selfie made by someone else where I balanced upon a barstool:
Gravity, a mysterious carriage of the body to conceal the defects of the mind that was at least attributed to said gentleman but makes me Wonder, how he knew?
I can't throw away books, not even tatty pockets, they must be given away and never burnt barbariously but I sort of like this wall despite worrying about afterwards, as one does when they come down...