I’ll put something on the lip of a bookshelf, or in a dish or on a coffee table, and then I’ll think, or perhaps feel more than think: There, that’s where that thing belongs, it lives there now; and this feeling is invariably so satisfying that it results in half a dozen things always gathering dust on windowsills or end tables around the house, just because, when I last set them down, they seemed to have reached the place where they belonged.
