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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
24
What
a
blessing
it
is
to
love
books.
Everybody
must
love
something,
and
I
know
of
no
objects
of
love
that
give
such
substantial
and
unfailing
returns
as
books
and
a
garden.
And
how
easy
it
would
have
been
to
come
into
the
world
without
this,
and
possessed
instead
of
an
all-consuming
passion,
say,
for
hats,
perpetually
raging
round
my
empty
soul!
I
feel
I
owe
my
forefathers
a
debt
of
gratitude,
for
I
suppose
the
explanation
is
that
they
too
did
not
care
for
hats.
In
the
centre
of
my
library
there
is
a
wooden
pillar
propping
up
the
ceiling,
and
preventing
it,
so
I
am
told,
from
tumbling
about
our
ears;
and
round
this
pillar,
from
floor
to
ceiling,
I
have
had
shelves
fixed,
and
on
these
shelves
are
all
the
books
that
I
have
read
again
and
again,
and
hope
to
read
many
times
more--all
the
books,
that
is,
that
I
love
quite
the
best.
In
the
bookcases
round
the
walls
are
many
that
I
love,
but
here
in
the
centre
of
the
room,
and
easiest
to
get
at,
are
those
I
love
the
best--the
very
elect
among
my
favourites.
They
change
from
time
to
time
as
I
get
older,
and
with
years
some
that
are
in
the
bookcases
come
here,
and
some
that
are
here
go
into
the
bookcases,
and
some
again
are
removed
altogether,
and
are
placed
on
certain
shelves
in
the
drawing-room
which
are
reserved
for
those
that
have
been
weighed
in
the
balance
and
found
wanting,
and
from
whence
they
seldom,
if
ever,
return.
Carlyle
used
to
be
among
the
elect.
That
was
years
ago,
when
my
hair
was
very
long,
and
my
skirts
very
short,
and
I
sat
in
the
paternal
groves
with
Sartor
Resartus,
and
felt
full
of
wisdom
and
Weltschmerz;
and
even
after
I
was
married,
when
we
lived
in
town,
and
the
noise
of
his
thunderings
was
almost
drowned
by
the
rattle
of
droschkies
over
the
stones
in
the
street
below,
he
still
shone
forth
a
bright,
particular
star.
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