There is a particular kind of afternoon that old bookshops were made for: grey at the window, warm by the lamp, and nowhere you need to be until the light goes. This corner is for the notes we write on afternoons like that, about books we’ve loved, odd things found between the pages, and what to read next.
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”






