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2011-04-06 - 5:13 p.m.

There's a big, cavernous warehouse of a bookstore near where I work. They sell remainder books. They're new, though many are mass-market books (chick lit, pets, diets) or weird books (strange science trends, or obscure biographies). But I've found Jonathan Safran Foer there, and all kinds of Updike, and Paul Auster, and Ian McEwan, and Kazuo Ishiguro, and Annie Dillard, and some of the great Russians, and just all kinds of modern fiction and memoirs that sparkle on the shelves, all new and fresh and clean and crammed-up with smarts and beauty and who-the-fuck-knows-what-but-you'd-better-find-out.

Today, the sun finally here, the faint green on the trees finally here, the forsythia bright with yellow, inside that store I lost myself for an hour. I collected two hardcovers, three paperbacks, and a CD of Bach's music that I'll listen to when I'm trying to write, because classical music's got no words. So, arms full, I finished with the tables and saw, ahead of me, the eight huge shelves marked "Fiction," the row after row so pretty and brightly speckled with spines like how bags of candy are brightly speckled with hard casings of sugar. And I realized, finally, arms aching, that I'd never, never ever, get to read them all.

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