Today I got it into my head that I needed to read some poetry. Tennyson, specifically. I was lying in bed reading Till We Have Faces when I remembered an old book I bought yearsandyearsandyears ago of 19th century poetry. An exquisitely old volume, printed in 1918. On the front page are two names of previous owners, and the date it was purchased: 10/30/'18. Full of Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, Keats, both Brownings, and a few poets I've never heard of. Lo and behold, there was Tennyson.
I looked through the table of contents but couldn't find The Lady of Shalott. I was rather heartbroken, as it's my favorite poem. By anyone. I thought to myself that I had to go buy another volume of Tennyson regardless.
But once I flipped to his section, it was right there. The second poem. I must have skipped over it in the contents. So I am very, very happy.
Now that I have much more shelf space (almost any entire bookcase, whee!), I don't feel nearly as guilty about buying books. For a while there I was piling them on top of each other and stacking them on the floor. It seemed wrong, though I enjoy seeing people do it in movies. The Ninth Gate, especially. The old man Fargas, with dozens of rare books piled all over the floors of his otherwise empty mansion. I would love to live like that.
Feeling a little better today. Slept 13 hours, though part of it was spent simply lying in bed and not wanting to get up. Still quiet, and would rather not speak. But I want to write incessantly.