Death is a Lonely Business. Рэй Брэдбери

had the feeling again of being followed and spun about.

      A big plume of fog came along the pier, ignored me, and passed on.

      So much for premonition.

      Here, halfway to the sea, there was a small dark shack that I had passed for at least ten years without seeing the window-shades up.

      Today, for the first time, the shade were raised.

      I looked in.

      My God, I thought. There’s a whole library there.

      I walked swiftly over, wondering how many similar libraries were hidden away on the pier or lost in the old alleys of Venice.

      I stood by the window, remembering nights when I had seen a light behind the shade and a shadow-hand turning pages in an invisible book, and heard a voice whispering the words, declaiming poetries, philosophizing on a dark universe. It had always sounded like a writer with second thoughts or an actor slipping downhill into a ghost repertory, Lear with two extra sets of mean daughters and only half the wits.

      But now, at noon this day, the shades were up. Inside, a small light still burned in a room empty of occupants but filled with a desk, a chair, and an old-fashioned but huge leather couch. Around the couch, on all sides, towering to the ceiling, were cliffs and towers and parapets of books. There must have been a thousand of them, crammed and shoved up to the ceiling.

      I stepped back and looked at the signs I had seen but not seen around and above the shack door.

      TAROT CARDS. But the print was faded.

      The next sign down read PALMISTRY.

      The third one, in block letters, was PHRENOLOGY.

      And beneath, HANDWRITING ANALYSIS.

      And to one side, HYPNOTISM.

      I sidled closer to the door, for there was a very small business card thumbtacked just above the doorknob.

      I read the name of the shack’s owner:

      A. L. SHRANK.

      And underneath the name, in pencil not quite so faint as canaries for sale, these words:

      Practicing Psychologist.

      A sextuple-threat man.

      I put my ear to the door and listened.

      In there, between precipice shelves of dusty books, did I hear Sigmund Freud whispering a penis is only a penis, but a good cigar is a smoke? Hamlet dying and taking everyone along? Virginia Woolf, like drowned Ophelia, stretched out to dry on that couch, telling her sad tale? Tarot cards being shuffled? Heads being felt like cantaloupes? Pens scratching?

      “Let’s peek” I said.

      Again, I stared through the window, but all I saw was the empty couch with the outline of many bodies in its middle. It was the only bed. Nights, A. L. Shrank slept there. Days, did strangers lie there, holding on to their insides as if they were broken glass? I could not believe.

      But the books were the things that fascinated me. They not only brimmed the shelves but filled the bathtub which I could glimpse through a half-open door to one side. There was no kitchen. If there had been, the icebox would have been filled, no doubt, with copies of Peary at the North Pole or Byrd Alone in Antarctica. A. L. Shrank, it was obvious, bathed in the sea, like many others here, and had his banquets at Herman’s Hot-dogs, down the way.

      But it was not so much the presence of nine hundred or a thousand books, as it was their titles, their subjects, their incredible dark and doomed and awful names.

      On the high, always midnight shelves stood Thomas Hardy in all his gloom next to The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which leaned on dread Nietzsche and hopeless Schopenhauer cheek by jowl with The Anatomy of Melancholy, Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, Freud, the tragedies of Shakespeare (no comedies visible), the Marquis de Sade, Thomas De Quincey, Hitler’s Mein Kampf, Spengler’s Decline of the West … and on and on....