The shelves

Library

Books, notes and quotes — a small reading life kept in the open. The shelves are honest about what is finished and what is only started.

Books

6 on the shelf

I

Reading

In Praise of Shadows

Jun'ichirō Tanizaki

On the beauty of dimness — and why light is not always enlightenment.

T

Reading

The Glass Bead Game

Hermann Hesse

Castalia is the original digital garden — an order of scholars devoted to the play of connections between every field of knowledge.

G

Queued

Gödel, Escher, Bach

Douglas Hofstadter

Strange loops, self-reference, and why meaning escapes the machine — the book that made me want to build minds.

T

Queued

The Art of Memory

Frances A. Yates

Memory palaces, the classical mnemonic tradition — an architecture of mind built two thousand years before computers.

A

Read

A Pattern Language

Christopher Alexander

Architecture's grammar of human feeling — reread yearly as a software designer.

T

Read

The Order of Time

Carlo Rovelli

Time is not what it seems — and memory is what makes it real for us.

Notes

On repetition as cultivation

Spaced repetition is usually sold as efficiency — more retention per minute. But the better frame is horticultural. Review is watering. Each return to a card strengthens the root, and the schedule is simply the rain cycle. The goal is not to remember everything. It is to let the important things take root deeply enough to survive the droughts of neglect.

Zettelkasten in the age of language models

The zettelkasten was a technology for externalizing thought: capture a note, link it, let the network surprise you. Language models do not replace this practice; they change its economics. Retrieval becomes trivial, so the scarce resource is no longer *finding* an old idea but *deciding* which ideas deserve to be linked at all. The slip box survives because the bottleneck was never search. It was judgment.

Kept quotes

“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”
— Jorge Luis Borges
“The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin