Each Book Was A World Unto Itself,

As Readers, We Have Gone From Learning A Precious Craft Whose Secret Was Held By A Jealous Few, To Taking For Granted A Skin That Has Become Subordinate To Principles Of Mindless Financial Profit Or Mechanical Efficiency, A Skill For Which Governments Care Almost Nothing.

I've Never Really Understood Attachment To A Place For Reasons Of Birth. That My Mother Happened To Give Birth To Me In A Certain Place Doesn't, To My Mind, Justify Any Thankfulness Towards That Place. It Could Have Been Anywhere.

The World Encyclopedia, The Universal Library, Exists, And It Is The World Itself.

Nothing Moves Except My Eyes And My Hand Occasionally Turning A Page, And Yet Something Not Exactly Defined By The Word "text" Unfurls, Progresses, Grows And Takes Root As I Read. But How Does This Process Take Place?

If The Book Is Second-hand, I Leave All Its Markings Intact, The Spoor Of Previous Readers, Fellow-travellers Who Have Recorded Their Passage By Means Of Scribbled Comments, A Name On The Fly-leaf, A Bus Ticket To Mark A Certain Page.