And what is this sick feeling I get, right now, shelving the books from my bedside table (four pieces of bamboo, pleasantly assembled) in preparation for shifting my life back to the other continent: Theocritus, Hecht, Larkin--there they go, slotted into their places on the bookshelf--and the others, still lying on the floor, a child's tower of blocks fallen down...it's not as if I don't have the same books, or library copies, over there. I can't keep all my books next to my bed all the time, can I? What is this fear of putting them back on the shelf? As if I might not read them again? As if I hadn't read them enough? I want to sit down, right now, and memorize all the poems in all the books, or at least be able to hold them all in my arms all the time.