“Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912. Somber, as a word, was better. But it did not apply to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound, but you couldn’t fit those words into Brooklyn. Serene was the only word for it, especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer.”
Last week, I packed my books. (I only own about a hundred; odd for a librarian, you say? Consider where I spend my days – surrounded by those paper friends, any of which I can bring home with me whenever I want!) One of the few books I own is one I’ve read probably a dozen times: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Its pages are yellowing and I long ago taped its back cover on; it’s weirdly full of typos and it smells musty and I love it. I love that I can dip into the narrative and know exactly where I am. It’s the book I read when I’m moving, because it’s always with me and it’s distracting and it doesn’t require my full attention. Unfortunately, I accidentally did the unthinkable and packed it. I tried to borrow a different book from the library, but I just couldn’t get into it, so I dug back into the stack of boxes and rescued my friend Francie. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do!
Horntoes in Brazil 