The rest, with very little exaggeration, was books. Meant-to-be-picked-up books. Permanently-left-behind books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with books. But books, books. Tall cases lined three walls of the room, filled to and beyond capacity. The overflow had been piled in stacks on the floor. There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing. A stranger with a flair for cocktail-party descriptive prose might have commented that the room, at a quick glance, looked as if it had once been tenanted by two struggling twelve-year-old lawyers or researchists. Pochti bez preuvelichenie mozhe da se kazhe, che ostanaloto biakha knigi. Knigi, koito niakoi vse se e kanel da otvori. Knigi, koito niakoi vse ne e smogval da prochete. Knigi, koito niakoi ne e znael kakvo da pravi. No knigi, knigi. Visoki etazherki biakha naredeni krai trite steni na staiata, pret'pkani izv'n miara. Knigite, za koito niamashe miasto, biakha strupani na kupchini po poda. Pochti niamashe k'de da se mine, da ne govorim za razkhodki iz staiata. Niakoi posetitel s t'n'k uset k'm opisaniiata na svetski veselbi sigurno bi kazal, che na pr'v pogled staiata izglezhda kato niakogashnoto obitalishche na dvama ambitsiozni dvanaisetgodishni advokati ili izsledovateli.