I can remember that on the shelves at home, there were these

Host: The evening light in the small secondhand bookstore fell through dusty windows like a kind of forgotten blessing — gold and dim, the way memory often feels. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, ink, and stories that refused to die.

The aisles were narrow, the shelves tall, and between them, time seemed to fold upon itself. Somewhere in the corner, a record player murmured a faint jazz tune — slow, nostalgic, unhurried.

Jack stood near the back, pulling down an aged copy of Look Homeward, Angel. The cover was cracked, the pages yellowed at the edges — like something inherited rather than bought.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a ladder, one hand tracing the spine of another book, her dark hair catching the last light.

Her voice broke the silence with an almost conspiratorial warmth — half amusement, half reflection:

"I can remember that on the shelves at home, there were these books by Thomas Wolfe. 'Look Homeward Angel' and 'Of Time and the River.' 'Of Time and the River' had just come out when I was aware of his name. My parents had a hard time convincing me that he was no kin whatsoever. My attitude was, 'Well, what's he doing on the shelf, then?'" — Tom Wolfe

Her words lingered in the musty air like cigarette smoke from a forgotten conversation.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That sounds exactly like something I would’ve said as a kid. Find a name that sounds like yours and decide fate’s already written it that way.”

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How children think the world revolves around their reflection.”

Jack: “And adults spend their whole lives trying to find that reflection again.”

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “You mean — the belief that the world’s personal?”

Jack: “Exactly. That books show up for you. That stories exist because they were meant to find you. Somewhere along the line, we start calling that coincidence instead of destiny.”

Host: The jazz from the corner deepened, the melody curling around the air like conversation in another language. The light bulb flickered, casting soft shadows that moved over their faces — two figures among thousands of forgotten words.

Jeeny: “Tom Wolfe’s story makes me think about inheritance — not of blood, but of influence. How the names we share, the books we find, the ideas we inherit without meaning to... they shape us more than the things we choose.”

Jack: “You’re saying we’re built as much by accidents as by intentions.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe more so.”

Jack: “So Thomas Wolfe wasn’t his kin — but he still lived in his house, in a way.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Some relationships are made of pages, not people.”

Host: Jack turned the book over in his hands, tracing the embossed lettering with his thumb. The dust came away like a small act of resurrection.

Jack: “You ever think about how books become family? Like, really become it? You spend enough nights with one, and suddenly it knows your secrets.”

Jeeny: “Books are the only relatives that never interrupt.”

Jack: (grinning) “Or judge. Or ask why you’re still single.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Exactly.”

(Her laughter faded into something quieter.)
“But they also hold you accountable. Every book you keep is a mirror of who you were when you first read it.”

Jack: “And who you thought you could be.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why it hurts to give them away.”

Host: Outside, the sound of rain began — gentle, persistent. It drummed lightly on the awning over the window, a rhythm soft enough to listen through.

Inside, the two of them spoke like people revisiting old versions of themselves.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought every book my parents owned said something about me. As if the house were a map of my future.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it said more about what they were afraid to forget.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s what libraries are — fear turned into paper. Proof against oblivion.”

Jack: “So what would my shelf say about me?”

Jeeny: “That you’re still trying to make peace with your past, one philosophy book at a time.”

Jack: (smirking) “You make me sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “No. Just human. And deeply catalogued.”

Host: The record player hissed softly as the song ended, replaced by the sound of rain and distant thunder. The room felt like it had been forgotten by the century — a sanctuary for people who still believed in the slow unfolding of thought.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How names and stories outlive their owners. Thomas Wolfe, Tom Wolfe — two different men, and yet one couldn’t escape the shadow of the other’s name.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he liked the confusion. It meant his name already carried a myth.”

Jack: “Or a burden.”

Jeeny: “All names are both.”

Jack: (quietly) “Do you think we ever stop trying to live up to the names we inherit?”

Jeeny: “No. We just learn to write new meanings into them.”

Host: The rain grew heavier. A few drops slipped through a crack in the window, landing on the wood with soft, rhythmic patience.

Jeeny stepped closer to the shelves, pulling down another volume — Of Time and the River. She held it for a moment, the pages whispering as she opened it.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something beautiful about that misunderstanding — thinking a writer was your family just because he lived on your bookshelf.”

Jack: “It’s innocence, pure and simple.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s more than that. It’s belonging. When you’re young, you believe everything you love belongs to you.”

Jack: “And when you grow up?”

Jeeny: “You realize it never did. You just belonged to it for a while.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was filled with the sound of rain, the scent of paper, and the quiet gravity of shared understanding.

Jack closed Look Homeward, Angel and placed it gently back on the shelf.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s why we collect stories. To borrow kinship from the world — even if it’s only in ink.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To be less alone in the vastness of other people’s thoughts.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what Tom Wolfe meant, too. That we all want to believe the names we find on our shelves mean something about who we are.”

Jeeny: “And they do. Every book we keep, every name we remember — it’s all part of the same inheritance. Not of blood, but of imagination.”

Host: The lights flickered once more before steadying. Outside, the rain began to fade, leaving the streets glistening like fresh ink on an ancient page.

Jeeny placed Of Time and the River beside its sibling on the shelf, her fingers lingering on the worn spine.

Jeeny: “You know what I love most about this? That even after all these years, the books stayed. Long after their readers forgot who first placed them there.”

Jack: “It’s the only kind of immortality that doesn’t ask for worship.”

Jeeny: “Just curiosity.”

Host: The two of them stood for a moment longer, surrounded by a thousand silent witnesses — the stories of strangers, the echoes of voices still alive between pages.

As they turned toward the door, the record started again — a gentle saxophone, low and nostalgic.

And in the quiet glow of the bookstore, Tom Wolfe’s memory echoed like a smile from another century:

"My attitude was, 'Well, what's he doing on the shelf, then?’”

Host: Because maybe that’s all any of us ever ask —
of our books, of our heroes, of our histories.

Why is it here? Why does it call to me?

And the answer, whispered softly from every shelf,
is always the same:

“Because a part of you was already written in it.”