Something On Sunday.
The long delayed Part 2 on books, the collecting of them and the person that was (and is, probably, no more).
You don’t have to read the first part of this series to follow the narrative thread, but if you want to, it’s now a free post here:
Something On Sunday...
Something On Sunday is a new recurring feature of essays and/or recollections about…something…hopefully interesting each time. I am a minor collector. Assemblages of various things, sometimes duplicates of the same item, a handful of treasure in a particular genus. It’s never been excessive. And I’m not a hoarder. But early in my life, it looked like things would go the other way. Perhaps my mom envisioned this grab-bag existence where stuff came in but never left and she was, secretly, worried about it. I don’t know. Everything was all on the table. Probably literally.
This second and final part is kind of like a sad mystery, I think, of the person I was maybe hoping to be back in those college and early post-college days, when the thought of perhaps writing books for a living would be fan…
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