My mom believes there is no better decoration than a shelf of books, and the house is a testament to that. The rooms are organized by category—contemporary novels in the dining room, the kitchen for cookbooks, the bedroom for non-antique editions of Victorian novels, what used to be my bedroom and is now my mom’s office for literary criticism, the bathroom for my dad’s collection of spry pop-science books, my dad’s serious science tomes in his study, the living room colonized by well-preserved early editions of Victorian novels, the rare first prints in a glass case that hangs in an awkward
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