Bookcase, Anne Frank's house
I'd seen this before, but from this postcard, I guess I must have visited it again in the Europe trip of '97. I always wondered what books were on it in 1944, and I always wondered what it was like to live behind all those pages.
I'm not sure what I thought about this while I was living in the little windowless pantry on 115th street. I think I wondered how my existence compared to theirs, but more in the terms of real-estate than in the terms of tragedy. Because there's nothing to wonder about, as regards tragedy, and real estate is about nothing but speculation, in every goddamn sense of the word.