My hulking bookshelves hold an eclectic collection of volumes. Some
Eliot here, a few Roths there, a smattering of Shakespeare, Rawls,
Darwin. Several are from the Strand; their secondhand jackets are
yellowed. The typeface on my books' bindings is often bold and austere.
The exception, though, is a cluster of paperbacks with hot-pink covers
and suggestive titles in curly cursive.
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