Laying low with a migraine and looking past the hazy globes of light that mar my vision and thinking about looking at the shelves of other people. It used to be only when I walked into the home of someone else, or their office, or in glimpses of strangers (cracking the spines on the train, or in those pockets of space where one waits), that I could see what others were reading. But now, now I can see these spaces, these stacks, these spines through the window of my phone. The glare is bright at night in the dark when I look at what others are reading, when I look at who others are reading. books are an aid to the mind and the heart, and if your shelves only have white authors on them, only have male authors on them, only have straight authors on them, it’s time to rearrange.
For our shelves are ourselves. We must remember this.