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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539524" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tomes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a section in my library for death <br>and another for Irish history, <br>a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan, <br>and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books, <br>the ones you can turn to anytime, <br>when the night is going wrong <br>or when the day is full of empty promise. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have nothing against <br>the thin monograph, the odd query, <br>a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist, <br>but what I prefer on days like these <br>is to get up from the couch, <br>pull down The History of the World, <br>and hold in my hands a book <br>containing nearly everything <br>and weighing no more than a sack of potatoes, <br>eleven pounds, I discovered one day when I placed it <br>on the black, iron scale <br>my mother used to keep in her kitchen, <br>the device on which she would place <br>a certain amount of flour, <br>a certain amount of fish. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Open flat on my lap <br>under a halo of lamplight, <br>a book like this always has a way <br>of soothing the nerves, <br>quieting the riotous surf of information <br>that foams around my waist <br>even though it never mentions <br>the silent labors of the poor, <br>the daydreams of grocers and tailors, <br>or the faces of men and women alone in single rooms- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">even though it never mentions my mother, <br>now that I think of her again, <br>who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth <br>in her electric bed, <br>in her smooth pink nightgown <br>the bones of her fingers interlocked, <br>her sunken eyes staring upward <br>beyond all knowledge, <br>beyond the tiny figures of history, <br>some in uniform, some not, <br>marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Taylor+Collins">William Taylor Collins</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539524" data-title="Tomes de William Taylor Collins" data-description="There is a section in my library for death 
and another for Irish history, 
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan, 
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books, 
the ones you can turn to anytime, 
when the night is going wro..."></div>
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