Battle of the Books

Going through a purge of the old musty library. Books plucked down from towering shelves bring sprays of dust and showers of parts of insects. I find at last in mummified form an old newt that had wandered off years ago, stuck behind a squat volume of Paracelsus with the spine peeling away. Mold grows on the Rig-Veda but surely these songs are alive in the throats of tribes elsewhere. My copy is therefore a redundancy.

"German pirates sail in boats made of a single tree that has been hollowed out."

Some persons estimate that it is a monstrous thing to wash one's hands with molten lead.