The bookshelf above my bed is now beyond overloaded and I’m quite certain that it’s going to collapse any day now. We’re at breaking point. One of the screws on the bottom left corner is looking particularly dodgy, and despite my best efforts I can’t get the damn thing tightened back into the wall. I can only hope that if it’s to go then it goes while I’m out at work, otherwise I’m afraid it could kill me.
What a way to go. I wonder which book would do me in, who would be the publisher? Assassinated by Abacus; a Faber & Faber finishing; rubbed out by Random House; massacred by Pan MacMillan; ousted by the Oxford Press. Would it be a hardback that delivers the final blow? 1984 or Brave New World? One of those weighty paperbacks, the copy of Infinite Jest or the Hunter Thompson anthology, would definitely do me in. Without a doubt, that copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare certainly has a menacing heft to it. They’d be an irony to Bertrand Russell’s History of Western Philosophy finishing me off. Then again, how about if I wasn’t crushed by the larger tomes, but suffocated under a pile of those smaller works; asphyxiated by Amis; a Steinbeck strangling; smothered under Salinger. Or maybe there are enough of his books up there to leave me mangled by McCarthy. Perhaps if The Aeneid, Ulysses and As I Lay dying fell on me all at once it could be considered one of the first cases of an intertextuality related fatality. Cause of death: literary modernism.
I’d never have this worry if I’d just fork out for one of those Kindle contraptions. But a screen is not a page and it never will be. Anyway, that’s enough being morbidly whimsical for one day.