Evil Requires No Reason.

If The Library In The Morning Suggests An Echo Of The Severe And Reasonable Wishful Order Of The World, The Library At Night Seems To Rejoice In The World's Essential, Joyful Muddle.

Readers, Censors Know, Are Defined By The Books They Read.

The Starting Point Is A Question.

Not Until I Came To Canada Did I Realize That Snow Was A Four-letter Word.

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.