If The Library In The Morning Suggests

Maybe This Is Why We Read, And Why In Moments Of Darkness We Return To Books: To Find Words For What We Already Know.

Every Reader Has Found Charms By Which To Secure Possession Of A Page That, By Magic, Becomes As If Never Read Before, Fresh And Immaculate.

During The Day, The Library Is A Realm Of Order.

Deserted Libraries Hold The Shades Of Writers Who Worked Within, And Are Haunted By Their Absence.

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.