Books for the Einsam

a trek across the formerly unfamiliar, fortunately puddle-ridden forest of the literary tradition

I seem to have since stopped, stooped, stared, and found myself anew at each body of water’s edge.

The forest of literature looks aged and fixèd, but grows to consume those those who wish to define its borders or ignore its presence.

Thank you for leading me here. I think I’d like to stay and explore.