Another earnest wish is coming to me: I wish that I could read all the books I saw that I like. I like the really old, tattered obscure kind that I know nothing about. I saw one about living in the Arctic among Eskimos last night, in the clearance section.
It amazed me to think that someone would compile years of life in a place and culture about which the rest of the world knows little, and there all six hundred pages lie forgotten, thirty years obsolete.
How many lives there are. How many books.