My library is not sorted by source, author or subject. It has an "upper", a "lower" and an equator that separates (and binds)
Above are the encyclopedias, books with better binding, filling with dust.
Down below lies my beloved, dull, worn, fold paged, written, yellowed. My Borges, a War and Peace with many battles, the unredeemed Borgia, the frayed Crime and Punishment, Wilde glancing at the Karamazov Brothers, the Yourcernar from Peer Gynt’s arm, Kafka next to Flaubert, Schopenhauer arguing with Victor Hugo, Ovidio persuading Virginia Wolf; Eco along with De Quincey, Rimbaud and Virgil, Ingenieros rubbing elbows with Tolkien and Ocampo ...
Every glance, as rebellious, self-sufficient, and curious as it can be, begins its inspection at the libraries’ bases. Right over there, below and to the left I had found The Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell and then some other gems of literature.