What a great but hidden pleasure, to keepsake something useless in this world, divided neatly as it is between the valuable and waste. What a feeling of wonder, to impute and recognize an object’s worth while resisting the impulse to quantify that object. What a satisfaction, to be asked by someone about some small thing you own—what does it mean, why do you have it, what is it worth—and to answer both confused and defiant, I don’t know.
I remember that when I was studying existentialism long years ago the importance that was placed on the non-utilitarian as peculiarly and essential human. I've collected stones I find interesting and odd bits of wood all my life.
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