Coiled fire hoses stacked in dusty towers eight high. Dented metal filing cabinets. A gymnast's pommel horse. Dismantled, stacked bannisters. At last we reverse our tracks and enter the final room.
Rod stops abruptly and stares.
Spread before us is the equivalent of an Olympic swimming pool full of books. In giant cardboard barrels, in refrigerator-sized boxes, in canvas rolling bins, books are jumbled in hundreds of containers and strewn unheeding on the floor. Along the wall, books stand two and three deep on black metal shelves. It is the fabled book burial ground. I had asked Mr. Zissimos.