A Book Brings Its Own

We Can Roam The Bloated Stacks Of The Library Of Alexandria, Where All Imagination And Knowledge Are Assembled; We Can Recognize In Its Destruction The Warning That All We Gather Will Be Lost, But Also That Much Of It Can Be Collected Again; We Can Learn From Its Splendid Ambition That What Was One Man's Experience Can Become, Through The Alchemy Of Words, The Experience Of All, And How That Experience, Distilled Once Again Into Words, Can Serve Each Singular Reader For Some Secret, Singular Purpose.

This Morning I Looked At The Books On My Shelves And Thought That They Have No Knowledge Of My Existence. They Come To Life Because I Open Them And Turn Their Pages, And Yet They Don't Know That I Am Their Reader.

If The Library Of Alexandria Was The Emblem Of Our Ambition Of Omniscience, The Web Is The Emblem Of Our Ambition Of Omnipresence; The Library That Contained Everything Has Become The Library That Contains Anything.

Not Until I Came To Canada Did I Realize That Snow Was A Four-letter Word.

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.