"Most certainly not."

Each offending volume is knocked an inch or two out of its diligently ordered space until, halfway down the line, the point of Ralston's borrowed cane pauses. With a clever flick of the wrist, he draws open the front cover and then—evidently satisfied by what he finds on the facing page—finally bends down to retrieve it.

Art. Only a self obsessed maniac pens a book.

"You may return the rest," he says.