At age 52, in the wake of a divorce, I begin packing my books for the move.
My chosen books, on their elegant mahogany bookcase: culled with vigor these 10, 20 years. But otherwise neglected. In a room with poor lighting. On dusty shelves. When was the last time I (a literature Ph.D. at age 30) read a favorite passage to a friend or lover?
Or just to myself?
It is time to rekindle my brain with what I once knew and discover what new things are lurking in the dark.
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