There is a section in my library for death br and another for Irish history, br a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan, br and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books, br the ones you can turn to anytime, br when the night is going wrong br or when the day is full of empty promise. br br I have nothing against br the thin monograph, the odd query, br a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist, br but what I prefer on days like these br is to get up from the couch, br pull down The History of the World, br and hold in my hands a book br containing nearly everything br and weighing no more than a sack of potatoes, br eleven pounds, I discovered one day when I placed it br on the black, iron scale br my mother used to keep in her kitchen, br the device on which she would place br a certain amount of flour, br a certain amount of fish. br br Open flat on my lap br under a halo of lamplight, br a book like this always has a way br of soothing the nerves, br quieting the riotous surf of information br that foams around my waist br even though it never mentions br the silent labors of the poor, br the daydreams of grocers and tailors, br or the faces of men and women alone in single rooms- br br even though it never mentions my mother, br now that I think of her again, br who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth br in her electric bed, br in her smooth pink nightgown br the bones of her fingers interlocked, br her sunken eyes staring upward br beyond all knowledge, br beyond the tiny figures of history, br some in uniform, some not, br marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.