But not if the bookshop door is closed. Not if you are trying to explain, over the phone, what it is you need when what you need is for the bookshop to invite you in and let you know it’s okay to wander, to touch, to mull. Not if you don’t know what you need, especially when the ache for a new book feels both trivial and privileged: when, if what to read is your only worry, then you shouldn’t be worried at all. Not if it seems that the whole world is lost for words.
