Massive, the size of family bibles and smelling of mildew and pipe smoke, edged in gold and lined in marbled papers ...
They make me think of nothing so much as Prospero's Books, a film I don't think I've seen in 10 years.
But really, all they're filled with is numbers, numbers, numbers, written in a delicate, beautiful hand. Imagine creating such beautiful books just for figures, with papers marbled in Paris, leathers tanned in Morocco, and the whole thing bound in New York City. And now the whole place is empty, except these stupidly pretty, useless books.
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