Years ago, in an essay I wrote to explain how I had become an amateur collector of old books, I talked about discovering the pleasures of a good hardback. “The very weight of a book,” I wrote, “the sturdy feel of its pages, the soft thump of a book falling closed: all these conspired to persuade me that mere paperbacks were no longer enough.” (more…) Continue Reading →
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History in our hands, in our hearts
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On a bookshelf above my desk, Thomas Hickey looks down at me every day with his perpetual expression of forlorn longing. All I know of Mr. Hickey is that he lived at 14 Patrick Street, Fermoy, and that he was 45 years old when he died on Oct. 28, 1942. (more…) Continue Reading →