I went again today, later in the afternoon, to that bookstore over in Midtown where I was a couple days ago, because, I guess, I like it. And while I was in there on the first floor, browsing, I saw an old copy of The Seven Storey Mountain, by Thomas Merton, which I reached down from where it sat on a shelf above a doorway, tucked between other books, and opened to its first page, to remind myself how it begins.