I must clear this shelf someday. I will put the books into a box and haul them to the library for the annual book sale. Some other blooming feminist, Marxist, quasi-surrealist chick is waiting for them.
During my graduate school years, I had a Poetry period, a Smoking-and-Drinking-with-Kate-and-Others period, and a Feminist Criticism period. (They overlapped a bit.)
I’ve dragged these books from Virginia, to Pennsylvania, to Kansas, and then back to Pennsylvania, and I haven’t opened them once. Dickens would tell me they are my chains, rattling after me all these years.