the catacomb of books is growing, coughed the tuberculitic rector.


IMG_20140728_153422_336 IMG_20140728_153634_607 IMG_20140728_153911_170 IMG_20140804_170347_541 IMG_20140804_170638_809 IMG_20140804_171013_412IMG_20140508_154440_326 IMG_20140615_140510_575

I have accumulated all of these despite working a near minimum wage job. The joys of being single and childless truly know no bounds. A few of the books I look forward to the most are Anna Tambour’s Crandolin, recently out from Chômu Press, The Evening Standard Book of Strange Stories from 1934, and my first Tartarus press splurge, Nugent Barker’s Written with my Left Hand.

3 thoughts on “the catacomb of books is growing, coughed the tuberculitic rector.

  1. Christ, what a garish and thoroughly attractive collection. Yes, a lack of responsibilities is a wonderful thing. Just completed my degree however. Time to get on the mortgage, child and job treadmill. And get a studio. Or a shed.

  2. Maybe skip everything else and just get a shed, and live out of it? Then fill it with nothing but bookshelves and sleep on a cot outside. This is probably what is eventually going to become of me.

    I do my best to avoid any and all treadmills.

    This doesn’t even include the last book I got in (the last I will get for awhile), a U.S. first edition of John Keir Cross’ 1946 (?) collection, The Last Passenger. It cost less than $6, somehow, albeit minus a dust jacket.

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