Her uncle [is] in his room of imagined books. Everything smells of books: an odor of forgotten memories. This is the library of imagined books, her uncle says, because he never reads any of them. Still, he’s collected them from friends’ basements and attics, garage sales and widows’ dens, all over Culver City, West Hollywood, Pasadena, Laurel Canyon, picking books for their heft and their leather-belted covers. The actual pages don’t matter.
passage from Crescent by Diana Abu-Jaber