My forlorn prints sit overshadowed by un-shelved and un-cataloged piles of various editions of Chaucer’s works. I had always thought of Chaucer as being the kindest and gentlest of men, and yet here I sit surrounded by malevolent books accusing me of being a dilettante with Chaucer’s ghost hovering in disapproval pointing at me in righteous anger while saying, “I know Chaucerians. Chaucerians are friends of mine, and you’re no Chaucerian! You don’t even deserve to be called a bibliophile. And as for being a collector, it would be more accurate to call you a pack rat. Look at this mess. Do you even know what you have? Faded baubles collecting dust are all they are to you. Shape this midden into a collection or I’m cutting you off. You’ll never win another auction, and every time you try to buy another edition someone else will have already bought it. Shape up Simola, and shape up this mess before a real Chaucerian comes knocking on your door!”
Who knew Chaucer could be such a bully?