The LibraryThe books on my shelf.
A catalogue of the real thing — shelved exactly as it stands at home.
New to borrow
These are the books actually on my shelf — the same volumes, in the same order they stand at home. Nothing aspirational, nothing arranged for show. If it’s in here, it’s within arm’s reach of my desk.
They’re shelved by what they’re for rather than who wrote them: five zones running from the epics down to a shelf of pleasure and poetry, with philosophy East and West kept together, oldest first. Every spine carries its Library of Congress call number — the same codes most American libraries use — and one view draws the whole shelf as a single, long conversation. There’s a corner, too, for the books I haven’t read yet.
Most of it is yours to borrow. Anyone can look around; checking a book out is a small perk I keep for paid subscribers — pick something marked available, ask for it, and I’ll mail you my own copy, checked by hand against the list. It’s one of the quieter, more personal ways in.
Behind a password I share with the list. Looking is open to everyone; borrowing is for paid subscribers.
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New work goes out to the list as it’s published.
Subscribing is free — and it’s the one thing here that travels with you.
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