Far too many fucking books. And I bought another half-dozen yesterday and today; I can’t keep away from used bookshops and sidewalk vendors.
There’s my whole Arkham House collection, mylar-wrapped and double-shelved.
One full shelf of James Branch Cabell, Franz Kafka, Italo Calvino, Nelson Algren, James Thurber, and Henry Miller. THERE’S a dinner party guestlist for you.
Next down has jazz reference books, an annotated Man Who Was Thursday, Donald Barthelme, and some histories (World War I, the 1916 Easter Rising, the guillotine, pornography publishing in Paris).
Over one for three full double-shelves of poetry – Ginsberg, Pessoa, Robinson, Hopkins, Frost, O’Hara, Baudelaire, Yeats, Pound, Tu Fu, Swinburne, Basho, Moore, Williams, Jeffers, Thomas, Sexton, Neruda, Browning, Stevens, Ammons, Sappho, Brautigan, Plath, St. John of the Cross, Sterling, Benet, St. Vincent Millay, Tsvetaeva, Lowell (Amy and Robert), Garcia Lorca, Eliot, Poe, Rexroth, Byron, Dickinson, Apollinaire, Ashbery, Rimbaud, Snyder, Auden, Corso, Nemerov, Larkin, Tennyson, Bukowski.
A shelf-ful of Mervyn Peake, shared with my graveyard reference books.
Some art histories sharing a shelf with the complete run of Carcosa Press titles, also mylared like the Arkhams.
Moby-Dick, The Brothers Karamazov, Petersburg, Don Quixote, Riddley Walker, the complete Jorkens Tales of Lord Dunsany, Chesterton’s Everlasting Man, the complete short works of Saki, Jack London, and Noel Coward, the complete Shakespeare, the complete works of Charles Fort.
I should really come up with some sort of filing system.