It Is A Grave Error To Assume

When I Visit A New Bookstore, I Demand Cleanliness, Computer Monitors, And Rigorous Alphabetization. When I Visit A Secondhand Bookstore, I Prefer Indifferent Housekeeping, Sleeping Cats, And Sufficient Organizational Chaos.

I, On The Other Hand, Believe That Books, Maps, Scissors, And Scotch Tape Dispensers Are All Unreliable Vagrants, Likely To Take Off For Parts Unknown Unless Strictly Confined To Quarters.

A Philosophy Professor At My College, Whose Baby Became Enamored Of The Portrait Of David Hume On A Penguin Paperback, Had The Cover Laminated In Plastic So Her Daughter Could Cut Her Teeth On The Great Thinker.

When I Walk Into An Apartment With Books On The Shelves, Books On The Bedside Tables, Books On The Floor, And Books On The Toilet Tank, Then I Know What I Would See If I Opened The Door That Says Private - Grownups Keep Out: A Children Sprawled On The Bed, Reading.

My Daughter Is Seven, And Some Of The Other Second-grade Parents Complain That Their Children Don't Read For Pleasure. When I Visit Their Homes, The Children's Rooms Are Crammed With Expensive Books, But The Parent's Rooms Are Empty. Those Children Do Not See Their Parents Reading, As I Did Every Day Of My Childhood. By Contrast, When I Walk Into An Apartment With Books On The Shelves, Books On The Bedside Tables, Books On The Floor, And Books On The Toilet Tank, Then I Know What I Would See If I Opened The Door That Says 'private--grownups Keep Out': A Child Sprawled On The Bed, Reading.