The Yellow Bookshop collides (aesthetically) with all of the other shops on Kalorama Road. It is the only shop on the road that one might live above and look out through a window to the street below. The window, of course, would frost over during the night and wouldn’t do much to keep out the cold. But the next morning a young man might draw the outline of a small circle on the frosted glass and then fill in the outline of the circle in order to see through the window and there spy, perfectly framed by the transparent disc, the face of a woman—a woman he might see on the street as he walked home (his hands filled with groceries) and who knew nothing of him other than he had said hello to her once as he walked by her, only once for fear of his heart exploding through his chest.
I have bought over 500 books from The Yellow Bookshop.
A list of some of them:
The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman
The Count of Monte Christo
Jenseits von Gut und Böse: Vorspiel einer Philosophie der Zukunft
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler
Invitation to a Beheading
Le Rouge et le Noir
The Sun Also Rises
The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova
Their Eyes Were Watching God
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Autumn of the Patriarch
Life is Elsewhere
Light in August
The Book of Imaginary Beings
The Street of Crocodiles
The Man Who Was Thursday
The Yellow Bookshop is closed now so I was not able to read there. But a new bookshop will open and I will collect more books.
what i would have read at the yellow bookshop on 10/10:
evil of goodness
this dream-like sequence, the basis of all conversation, is an example of a near-perfect combination of form and function. It provides an environment in which people can exist [live]. Rules are established of what can or should be said and of what cannot or should not be said. In turn, expectations are met, practice is rewarded, and humans may interact in relative safety.
We’re on a ship that’s sinking and you and I move away from where the water’s filling. They’ll bring a fire truck on deck to put out the fire. It’s a long ship and there’s lots of space. But we’ll have to jump over. Near the ship there’s a pond and we see pond things while we’re swimming underneath. Storybook pond things that invert words like vespertine (from the viny) or crepuscular just for this sense. It looks like an old city but it’s just an old town. And when the Indian sailors come rowing over to tell us how they fixed her up, we’ll tell them to row back because we’ll be staying here a while. We’ll say ‘you’ll find us waiting here M+ati/lda, our sweat collecting in the creases of a bamboo porch.’
It could be the land of turtles or the land of underneath water. But we are a relevant species, scraping chum along the briny, humming jingles while flowers bloom from the bottom of our shoes.