Harvard Classics Five-foot Shelf Of Books นิยาย & เรื่องราว

he asks as we head toward the upper level. "Yes. It was rude of you not to offer last night." "If I forget my pack manners, do tell me. But I think you will favor this space," he admits. "Your private den?" "Better," he says, pushing the heavy door wide. My jaw drops. I never imagined a massive library, books climbing from the floor to the rafters. A ladder, taller than the one below, glides along the shelving. "Holy shit. Are those fifteen-foot shelves?"

She was glancing around the room, trying to distract herself while she waited on her mom to catch up. The room she was in was a massive building with high ceilings. Thousands of 6 feel tall wooded shelves were standing upright and in rows and columns like a well-trained army. Each shelf held one giant ancient-looking book that was over 6ft tall. In front of each shelf was a small table that ran 6ft long and held 4 tables. Each table had a mechanism that could turn the pages of the book remotely from their seat, mages no longer had to get up from their seat or hire someone to turn pages for them.

Not that there was any natural light at this hour. Many of these books appeared to be manuscripts and as Joseph had said, “well-preserved.” I gazed up at one of the bookshelves while the other students started asking more questions. The kind of bookshelf where a ladder would be needed. On top of the shelf, there looked to be some very old books with even older papers. Those were the only things that didn’t fit in with the seemingly perfect study. Joseph had gone over the many categories that he has in his collection. However, he failed to mention anything about those random stray books and papers.

he replies, grinning widely, “I cleared it with Preston himself. I wanted to show you the meeting place of the Lady and the poet.” The chamber is stunning. It is a small space, but elegant. There is an enormous bed in one corner, piled high with sumptuous silks and firs. A painting that I don’t recognize by name, but I am fairly sure is a Van Gogh, hangs in the corner. A bookshelf is filled with leather bound volumes of the classics. Dickens, Twain and Bronte all nestled together. “They are all first editions,” my husband tells me before I can ask, “Signed by the authors themselves. And no, we aren’t allowed to touch them. I tried, but they are just too valuable for me to convince Preston n

“We are in the bastion of education! Not some sexual dungeon where you can freely think about all the naughty things you did with my King.” I instantly redden at the thought. When Harbin raises his brows, I look away and travel my eyes around the library instead. It is a three floors circular dome-like structure, with shelves of books as far as one can see. One shelf is twice as tall as me that there are ladders to be used for those on the top shelves. It is a wonderful place. I’m sure it will be hard to play hide and seek in this place. I bet that I can even use this as my hiding place.

Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, full of antiquarian leather bound volumes. “I’ve always been a collector. Currently I’m building a collection from the Civil War era. I’ve now got a substantial number of volumes of Byron, Shakespeare. This one,” he moved to a shelf and pulled out a book, “Is a rare first edition of Othello. Have you read Shakespeare?” “A little.” “Baudelaire?” He moved to another shelf. “I’m not familiar with.” She felt conspicuously illiterate in his presence.

The library’s floor is polished, and it has a granite fireplace and a comfortable, well-worn sitting arrangement. I heave a sigh, relieved that Ms. Lennie isn’t around to reprimand me. I’ve always loved reading and collecting romance books at home, so seeing these shelves just makes my heart soar. I start my journey inside, searching for cookbooks. Instead, I stumble upon a book placed in a glass cage in the middle of the classics section. I lean forward, touching the glass as I try to read the title. It’s Macbeth and Hamlet by William Shakespeare. The air instantly abandons my lungs when I catch sight of the leather-bound cover. It’s very old but still stunning.

Estelle’s POV Harrison announced at breakfast on Saturday that he was going to put up a shelf. I had been reading the front page of the paper, which was bleak in the way front pages always were on Saturdays, and I looked up with the mug of coffee still at my lips. “A shelf? For what?” “Your books. The medical ones. The ones you pile on your nightstand because they don’t fit.” “They fit when I stack them,” I said, and he gave me the look, so I folded the newspaper.

He didn’t answer right away, but two hours later, I found myself standing in library number five. It was on the second floor, with a slanted ceiling and walls covered in built-in shelves. Every shelf was just tall enough to hold paperbacks. The books were old, their spines cracked, their pages worn soft from being read too many times. The only break in the shelves was a tall stained-glass window. Afternoon light shone through it, scattering green and red and blue patches across the polished wood floor. It was beautiful. But it wasn’t useful. No Davenport.