I do not "get out much" on the Internet anymore. At least not as much as I used to. But I couldn't help but notice that many of my Internet confreres have included me in the "tell me what's on page leventyleven" book meme.
I am gratified, of course, to be thought of. But of course I can't just cooperate. I'm a weirdo. If you must know, my house is like a nest of books. There are piles of them everywhere. Shelves depend from the ceiling; rise up from the floor. These stalagtites of text, stalagmites of print, and encrustations of illustration are too loopy to be of much interest to anyone else, I imagine. And the one gaping void has always been the same for me: I don't read fiction. I practically never have. That's what you're all interested in, I know it, and I'm sorry, but I can't help you. I do not have a subscription to any newspapers or magazines, either, now that I think of it. We own screens, but we can't watch broadcast or cable television on any of them. I told you I was strange, but you don't listen.
But there were many that expressed an interest. Let me see if I can be of some help. That first picture shows you the pleasantest where where you can read at my house. You should have a place like that in yours. A place of quiet contemplation, with the world just over your shoulder out the window. A light and a clock and a place for your drink. My wife reads here often while she listens for her child to fall asleep down the hall. Here's what's on the shelf over it.