All these books. So many books. Apart from the windows overlooking the garden, each side of the room is covered with shelves, running from a low wainscot to the ceiling. Some shelves are covered with a metal grille. Others are not. There are books with titles I can read, with what I think is the name of the person who wrote them under the title. Others have writing on them that doesn’t make any sense to me. What a world must live between all those covers! A thousand worlds! How clever, how wise must be someone who can read and understand them all.
I am to use a feather duster to clean them – yes, even those on the top shelves, which I must climb up to on a ladder that runs from side to side of the room.
But I must not touch them, and I must never ever try to read them.