Timber-time was what Bookholmians called the tranquil evening hours, that snug sequel to a busy day of selling books or writing them. When thick balls of timber blazed in open fireplaces and pipes were lit, when heavy wines developed their bouquets in big-bellied glasses and Master Readers embarked on their public recitations - that was timber-time. That was when billets of firewood crackled on the hearth, bathing the various venues in a warm yellow glow, when ancient tomes and first editions hot off the press were opened, and when audiences crowded closer to listen to the old and tried or the new and outre, to essays or short stories, novels or collections of letters, poetry or prose. Timber-time was when the body came to rest and the mind sprang to life, when phantoms born of a literary imagination arose from the pages and danced about the heads of listeners and readers alike.
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