Minimum sale is five feet. Special discounts on more than 100 feet!
Two green leather tooled volumes of Vanity Fair by Thackery ... a gift from a childhood friend. Tiny blue volumes of Mrs. Browning's poetry.... from a beloved companion. A burgundy leather bound collection of Sir Walter Scott's poems... brought over from Scotland. A small green book of poems by Shelley.... purchased in Oxford. Countless volumes of Dickens, nearly falling apart with use.... bought long ago in an old corner bookshop that is sadly no longer there.
And so many, many more.... some old, some new, some paperbound, some bound in leather. Some on shelves, others piled on chairs or stools, many holding pride of place on the mantle or on tables. Do I love the way my books look in my house. Yes! of course. Do I arrange some of them so as to highlight the beauty of their old bindings or gold-embossed titles? Yes, I do. But they are all read, all loved, and never bought for show.
Books as status symbol. Books to reflect one's wealth. Books displayed to imply fabricated learning. Frankly, the concept confounds me.