Please go to this article in Slate magazine to see an astonishing photo of Eisenstein’s bookshelves, as they were recreated by his friends after his death.
Books cling to me. They fly down to me, run up and attach themselves to me. I have loved them so long: large and small, thick and thin, rare and cheap editions. They should not be too neat, like suits straight from the tailors; but they should not be clad in greasy rags. A book should lie in the hand like a well-adjusted tool. I have loved them so much that they have finally begun to love me back. Books burst open like ripe fruit in my hands and fold back their petals like magic flowers bearing the seed of a thought, a stimulating word, an apt quotation, a useful illustration.