Bookshops and libraries are my churches and cathedrals. My armchair is for private prayer. My shelves hold my selves: past, present and ideal.
Today I donated 22 pieces of my reading history to charity, but I confess I’ve ordered another bookcase to take the books that are waiting for a pew. The books are packed in two-deep on my largest bookcase and sighing for breathing room. When I took them out for dusting and rearranging I discovered old, lost friends.
I’ve tried to surround my books by or about Oscar Wilde with ones that represent the company Wilde preferred: Flaubert, Huysmans, Ruskin, Gautier, Robbie Ross, Bernhardt, Ellen Terry, Ada Leverson, Balzac, etc. I hope he would approve.