A Bad Case of Bookend-vy
Last week I was working with a client to organize his home office, and the shelves we had selected together, while they did look like knock outs, lacked a certain element crucial in the storage of books: ends.
“We need something here…” He said.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to rearrange spines and avoid knocking the whole group over. “I feel that too.”
“Do you have any…like…bookends with you?” He asked.
And then I was left to curse my Mary Poppin bag of supplies for its lacking something suddenly so obviously necessary.
Personally, I don’t care how many versions of the Kindle they come out with; I’m holding steady on books being a group of the more glorious sectors of the material world. On their own, they’re things of beauty; Collected on a bookcase, they convey interest and passion and personality.
Bookends are like the accessory to the literary outfit. The books might do most of the talking, but the bookends are what the outfit stands upon; gets elevated in style by.
Bookends are inherently form and function–and anytime those two factors are combined into one inanimate object, I give the old LS sign off.
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