In My Fool Hardy Youth, When My

Life Happened Because I Turned The Pages.

At Night, Here In The Library, The Ghosts Have Voices.

I Have No Feelings Of Guilt Regarding The Books I Have Not Read And Perhaps Will Never Read; I Know That My Books Have Unlimited Patience. They Will Wait For Me Till The End Of My Days.

I Never Talked To Anyone About My Reading; The Need To Share Came Afterwords.

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.