Friday, September 30, 2011
My Shelf, My Shelf
My God, my God, Thou art a direct God, may I not say---a literall God, a God that wouldest bee understood literally, and according to the plaine sense of all that thou saiest? But thou art also (Lord I intend it to thy glory, and let no phrophane misinterpreter abuse it to thy diminution) thou are a figurative, a metaphoricall God too: A God in whose words there is such a height of figures, such voyages, such peregrinations to fetch remote and precious metaphors, such extensions, such spreadings, such Curtaines of Allegories, such third Heavens of Hyperboles, so harmonious eloquutions, so retired and so reserved expressions, so commanding perswasions, so perswading commandments, such sinewes even in thy milke, and such things in thy words, as all prophane Authors, seeme of the seed of the Serpent, that creepes, thou art the Dove that flies.
My shelf, my shelf, you are a book shelf, dare I say it--a handmade shelf, a shelf that would be overlooked easily, and mistaken for a normal place for all of the books. But you are also (shelf I want you just to listen, and let no idiot outsider change our topic of conversation) you are an art-piece, an underrated Ikea block: a shelf in whose stacks there is such an amount of stories, such writings, such authors whose words bring images and profound meaning, such colors, such spines, such inspiration of genius, such first editions of classics, so demanding recognition, so humble and so assumedly normal, so sideways slanting, so slanting sideways, so leaning over towards the desk, and yet tall in your stance, as all wayward writers, seem to be bent towards the ground, like willows, you are the shelf of life.