In The Dark, With The Windows Lit

I Always Knew That I Wanted To Live With Books, Even As A Child, Because We Traveled A Lot. Home Was The Book To Which I Came Back Every Evening.

The Stories That Unfold In The Space Of A Writer's Study, The Objects Chosen To Watch Over A Desk, The Books Selected To Sit On The Shelves, All Weave A Web Of Echoes And Reflections Of Meanings And Affections, That Lend A Visitor The Illusion That Something Of The Owner Of This Space Lives On Between These Walls, Even If The Owner Is No More.

I Enjoyed Learning The Poems, But I Didn't Understand Of What Use They Might Possibly Be. ‘they'll Keep You Company On The Day You Have No Books To Read,' My Teacher Said.

If Every Library Is In Some Sense A Reflection Of Its Readers, It Is Also An Image Of That Which We Are Not, And Cannot Be.

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