Our View Of Reality Is Only A

In My View, Nineteen Pounds Of Old Books Are At Least Nineteen Times As Delicious As One Pound Of Fresh Caviar.

One Reason We Have Children I Think Is To Learn That Parts Of Ourselves We Had Given Up For Dead Are Merely Dormant And That The Old Joys Can Re Emerge Fresh And New And In A Completely Different Form.

Muses Are Fickle, And Many A Writer, Peering Into The Voice, Has Escaped Paralysis By Ascribing The Creative Responsibility To A Talisman: A Lucky Charm, A Brand Of Paper, But Most Often A Writing Instrument. Am I Writing Well? Thank My Pen. Am I Writing Badly? Don't Blame Me Blame My Pen. By Such Displacements Does The Fearful Imagination Defend Itself.

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.

It Is A Truism Of Epistolary Psychology That, For Example, A Christmas Thank-you Note Written On December 26 Can Say Any Old Thing, But If You Wait Until February, You Are Convinced That Nothing Less Than Middlemarch Will Do.