This week I finished unpacking books I had with me since I moved to SF, and integrated them with ones that had been in storage for years. They all sit now in beautiful built-in shelves, in an upstairs fireplace’d parlor room of a 1890s victorian in the Fair Oaks neighborhood. I am happy that my books are all here.

I arranged:

Biographies. No surprise, I like people. Moss Hart (my namesake). Copland, Wilde, Anderson, Bernstein, Bacon.
Books on words. Compact OED, Handy MidEast phrases, Basque to English, The Meaning of Meaning.
Children’s books. Including some of my own from my childhood, and others I’ve picked up.
Old books. Cute pocket sized Shakespeare, first edition Dickens, Oscar Wilde, illuminated Salome, illuminated Rubaiyat.
Art books. One whole shelf. Magritte, Sendak, Holzer, Sherman, Ruscha. Vernacular drawings.
Design books. One other whole shelf. Tibor, Graphis, Millman, Pentagram.
Zines. Lots and lots of independent publication love over the years. Non. Might. Outpost Journal. Hello Mr., Jarry, Headmaster, Gum, Encyclopedia. Lots and lots of small books which I always am drawn to.
Fiction. Some from my childhood and other new fiction I would like to read.
Self. Books on spirituality in art, music, listening to the universe kinda stuff.
Business inspiration. Being nice, reworking, teams.
Poetry. Whitman, Rumi, Wilbur, Siken, Milton, cummings.

I’d say that paints a nice portrait of who I am.