Life Happened Because I Turned The Pages.

At One Magical Instant In Your Early Childhood, The Page Of A Book—that String Of Confused, Alien Ciphers—shivered Into Meaning. Words Spoke To You, Gave Up Their Secrets; At That Moment, Whole Universes Opened. You Became, Irrevocably, A Reader.

As Readers, We Have Gone From Learning A Precious Craft Whose Secret Was Held By A Jealous Few, To Taking For Granted A Skin That Has Become Subordinate To Principles Of Mindless Financial Profit Or Mechanical Efficiency, A Skill For Which Governments Care Almost Nothing.

A Writer Stops Writing The Moment He Or She Puts The Last Full Stop To Their Text, And At That Point The Book Is In Limbo And Doesn't Come To Life Until The Reader Picks It Up And The Reader Flips The Pages.

But A Reader's Ambition Knows No Bounds.

Ordered By Subject, By Importance, Ordered According To Whether The Book Was Penned By God Or By One Of God's Creatures, Ordered Alphabetically Or By Numbers Or By The Language In Which The Text Is Written, Every Library Translates The Chaos Of Discovery And Creation Into A Structured System Of Hierarchies Or A Rampage Of Free Associations.