In a used bookstore a few days ago, it occurred to me that I’m slowly but surely recreating the old library† in my hometown — not, perhaps, exactly as it was, but as I remember and imagine it. More and more these days, surrounded by these musty tomes, I have the sure feeling that whatever book I open will draw me in, lead me on, and give me satisfaction. As it was back then, so it is now, with the added joy of knowing that the younger readers in the family will find them useful when I’m gone, and revealing, too.
“As I close, I’ve a bewildering consciousness of having left out the very things I wanted most to say, and incorporated in their stead the unimportant. You will forgive me, though, I know.”in a letter to Howard TaylorSept. 4, 1879
† since torn down