She reads Russian novels and gets up early. I have yet to meet her.

There is a shelf in my hall for the person I hoped to be. I found it while dusting, which should tell you how often I look at it. I have listed the contents here as a public act of confession.

The shelf

  1. A very long Russian novel, spine uncracked, bought at an airport.
  2. A second very long Russian novel, in case the first one went well.
  3. A history of salt.
  4. An introduction to Stoicism, abandoned on page nine, in a fit of temper.
  5. A field guide to mosses.
  6. A book on how to read more books.
  7. Two volumes of poetry I bought because of the covers.
  8. A beginner’s guide to Portuguese, for a trip I did not take.
  9. A book about getting up early.
  10. A complete Montaigne, which I do intend to read, and always will.
  11. A cookbook with no photographs, for serious people.
A bookshop with shelves of colorful books
The scene of the crime. I go in for a card and come out with a history of the Baltic.

That is eleven. The twelfth is in a bag by the door, because I went into a bookshop on Thursday.

The defence

I used to feel guilty about this shelf. Now I think of it as a sort of letter to someone I am still fond of. She is curious and patient. She has time. She would very much like to understand moss.

A shelf of unread books is not a failure. It is a list of things you still think might happen.

The books are very patient about this. And last month, on a wet Sunday, I took down the history of salt, and it was wonderful, and I told everyone I met about it for a week. So you never know.