It is early evening, and I am sitting at my dining table without a single thought in my head. Perfectly happy with my bare state of mind, I look around my livingroom for no reason whatsoever. At some point, I cast a look at the towering book piles to my right (“Three Piles of Books,” September 7, 2019). All of a sudden, a question pops up in my mind: what is common to all of these books? A tough question, no doubt. Indeed, what could be common to the likes of Theodor Adorno, Alan Alexander Milne, Tony Judt, Joseph Joubert, James Austin, Peter Frankopan, Homer, James Lovelock, Jacques Attali, Mircea Eliade, and Seneca, for example? The first answer that comes to my mind is that I am common to them all as a steadfast reader, but I am far from happy with it. It strikes me as too vain by half. After a short while, though, I realize that there is something to that unexpected answer. As a matter of fact, my Residua is common to all of the above. All of them have been cited in many of my pieces of writing, and many of them have been quoted extensively often enough. Although I am still uneasy with that answer, none better comes my way. After a long pause, I give up. One way or another, my book is a resting place of many a formidable mind. Whenever I wish to connect with anyone among them, I open my laptop, go to my website, and search for their name. The most astute among my readers do the same, I happen to believe. Indeed, my magnum opus is a resting place to reckon with. And it is forever free for all.