The copy belonged to my roommate from Chicago whose other favorite author was T. It must have been my freshman year of college, in the fall of 1995, that I inhaled The New York Trilogy. That was how I first said good-bye to Paul Auster.
In my case I sold them all in 2010 - anything that didn’t have sentimental value as an object or couldn’t be easily replaced.
How do you reckon with your younger, naïve self, the person you were before your tastes matured? You were better looking then, but those books you were reading, turn their spines away from the light. What if you were made to account for the books on your shelves, the way souls have to account for their sins? I’m not talking about some bogus social signaling when a date is brought home or people are over for dinner.
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