Whenever I remember my Residua, let alone read from it or add a new piece of writing to its sprawling bulk, I feel outright lucky. Or privileged. Or even blessed. The last week or so the feeling has grown that much stronger because I have been spending so much more time than I usually do with my book in connection with its new abode on the World Wide Web. In fact, I feel so happy about my life-long project that I find myself rather surprised that projects of this ilk are not more widespread. Or familiar. Or even commonplace. Indeed, books quite like my own were the rage once upon a time. Centuries ago, “comonplacing” was a verb of some standing in the civilized world, but few dictionaries recognize it nowadays. Commonplace books were as common as the noun itself would suggest. But what happened in the meanwhile? Could it be that the art of reading and writing has declined just as literacy has become, well, commonplace?