At Different Times And In Different Places

Old Or New, The Only Sign I Always Try To Rid My Books Of (usually With Little Success) Is The Price-sticker That Malignant Booksellers Attach To The Backs. These Evil White Scabs Rip Off With Difficulty, Leaving Leprous Wounds And Traces Of Slime To Which Adhere The Dust And Fluff Of Ages, Making Me Wish For A Special Gummy Hell To Which The Inventor Of These Stickers Would Be Condemned.

As We Read A Text In Our Own Language, The Text Itself Becomes A Barrier.

One Can Transform A Place By Reading In It.

Digestion Of Words As Well; I Often Read Aloud To Myself In My Writing Corner In The Library, Where No One Can Hear Me, For The Sake Of Better Savouring The Text, So As To Make It All The More Mine.

In My Fool Hardy Youth, When My Friends Were Dreaming Of Heroic Deeds In The Realms Of Engineering And Law, Finance And National Politics, I Dreamt Of Becoming A Librarian.