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Do you remember the first time you saw the ocean, desert dweller?  We swept through the high lands and dropped off the mountain range and you could smell it from miles away.  It caressed you the way your first lover did.  And also like your first lover, it kept on going as soon as and long after you left it.

Foreign tongues are the same way, singing a siren song devoid of anything intelligible and still so full of meaning.  You will taste tastes.  Smell smells.  It will cut you deep and trample all over you and leave you exhausted in bed longing for more.

I remember the first time I stepped out of a metro stop with a bag on my shoulder and the cobblestones beneath my feet.  I remember sipping coffee while the sounds of an accordion bounded down the narrow avenue.  And I remember, for the first time, discovering an itch that I would never, ever be able to scratch.

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It has been a long time since I spent any significant period of time in your cave.

Things still creak.  Unusual features stick out in my memory and punctuate just how long it has been—the weird shelves, the desk that’s really a door, the low ceiling.  It—and I suppose you, by extension—smell pretty much the same.  Nothing has changed.

I remember that peculiar night so long ago.

Your sink was full of dishes and your bed was sunk in the middle.  For a long time there I forgot what your face looked like when it wasn’t seen through the lens of a camera and that scared me.  You were never that interested in figuring me out, but I like to think this hinted at an enjoyment that wasn’t cognitive at all.  Everything has changed.

I think the issue was always one of knowing, even though it probably doesn’t matter any more.

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‘

More than that: the chance, the fate, that suffuse the past before my eyes are conspicuously present in the accustomed confusion of these books.  For what else is this collection but a disorder to which habit has accommodated itself to such an extent that it can appear as an order?

—Walter Benjamin, “Unpacking My Library”

I do not consider myself a collector.  Quite the opposite, really—the burden of objects weighs heavy on me and I purge often, with gusto and without hesitation.  Books, though, hold a special place in my heart, more than any other category of objects I own.  Here are a few of my favorite pieces from the collection that resides just a few feet from my bed:

Religious "literature"

I acquired this gem over the summer when I was visited by some really nice people who turned out to be Jehovah’s Witnesses.  The beauty of this text is its utility.  When I encounter other door-to-door proselytizers (typically Mormons, but I’ve seen all sorts in this neighborhood), I’ll grab this book and turn the tables.  Plus, the illustrations are really good for a laugh.

People of all ages and races worship the "True God" by...trekking mountain paths (?)

Abercrombie & Fitch Quarterly, Issue 25, "Back to School 2003"

This was given to me by my good friends, Alex and Adam, and stands out as one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received from anyone.  I generally avoid Abercrombie & Fitch products—and catalogues—but this one stands out as a fascinating cultural artifact because it has commentary from Slavoj Žižek, a significant figure in contemporary Continental philosophy.

Pretty much

When asked about his choice to provide copy for the quarterly by the Boston Globe, Žižek said, “If I were asked to choose between doing things like this to earn money and becoming fully employed as an American academic, kissing ass to get a tenured post, I would with pleasure choose writing for such journals!”  Brilliant.

Published in Rolling Stone Magazine

Shortly after David Foster Wallace’s suicide in September 2008, Rolling Stone put out the best eulogy/article on him that I know of.  I made a point of purchasing the magazine for this article alone (the version made available online is severely amended to its detriment).  I later snipped the article out and got rid of the rest of the magazine, but this piece gets read once every few months.

The beloved tome

I read Infinite Jest for the first time in the summer of 2007.  It changed my perspective on damn near everything and continues to pop into my head quite often.  I’ll be rereading it this summer.  With two bookmarks, of course.

The sign of a truly loved book

Ms. G's favorite

My favorite teacher in high school was Kay Goodman.  She taught me how to act, cast me as Mercutio, and was probably the most passionate person I have ever met.  She loved what she did and I remember her often as I think about my probable future as a teacher.  When You Comin’ Back, Red Ryder? was one of Ms. Goodman’s favorite plays.  She was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) a few months into my sophomore year.  The disease attacks nerve tissue, but targets different nerve tissue in each person.  In Ms. Goodman’s case, it went straight for her throat.  Just a year after the diagnosis, she lost the ability to enunciate words, forcing her to retire prematurely.  Watching her exhaust herself directing our last play together stands out as one of the most tragic things I have ever witnessed.  Months before her retirement (and just a year or two before her death), I volunteered to help her clean out a closet.  She let me keep whatever I found on the shelves of books and plays.  I took this book.  It still has her notes in it.

Five males, three females

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