Country singer Clint Black sings that “love always looks the same” and so do rare book stores. They also always smell the same and I love that. I walk in and my senses heighten and take on the acuteness of a hunter’s, abetted by the adrenal shot of book dust and leather bindings. However different than scent of hotel rooms, this hits your gut the same way: the thrill of the undiscovered lay in front of you. Gleam volumes in neat rows, like soldiers in dress or spiffy orphans looking for a a home. I pick up a biography of Evelyn Waugh’s last years. Endings matter.