Bernard Berenson once said that the formation of the great library he assembled at I Tatti was his greatest achievement. I feel much the same way about the library (as distinct from the bookshop) that I’ve put together in Archer City. The collection—or, more properly, the accumulation— now numbers about 28,000 volumes. If I were beamed up tomorrow my library would attest to the fact that a reader had once been there.

Good enough.

Now, though, I’ve become principally a rereader, a habit that’s prevailed for nearly a decade. I still service the big library, buying new books and scouting up old books by or about the writers I cherish or the subjects I’m still curious about. Forming my library brought me fifty years of pleasure; when I’m in it now I feel a faint pride but only a weak attachment. Emotionally I’ve already bequeathed it to my son and grandson. I’m the ghost that found the books, but I don’t visit my old library often, or think about it much. [Larry McMurty: On Rereading*. Siehe auch Michael Dirdas Rezension* von McMurtys „Books: A Memoir“]

* Die Artikel sind mittlerweile im kostenpflichtigen Archiv der NYRB.