My books compactly occupy the shelves br In random combinations like my thoughts. br I can place some of them in a jiffy, br This Nabokov or Yeats, that Borges - br Familiar as furniture, taken for wanted. br I seldom ask them out, and when I do, br I vaguely remember my blurred first reading br And the footprints of my eager scouting: br A footnote, a sideline or marginal tick, br A thorn of comment. I don't feel this now. br What have I lost? I've lost the hunter's scent, br The tingling in the fanciful mind br Of a headlong plunge into dangerous pages. br br At the best of times br There is something second-hand about books. br As for the 'deja lu', the authors age with you, br As if their words were never new-minted, br As if they are blighted from your brain. br All is devalued. Even my hankering after br A severe classicism is recognisably absurd br In these fragmented times. I don't regret br Not having packed a shelf with my own staleness.