During The Day, The Library

I Have No Feelings Of Guilt Regarding The Books I Have Not Read And Perhaps Will Never Read; I Know That My Books Have Unlimited Patience. They Will Wait For Me Till The End Of My Days.

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.

Evil Requires No Reason.

A Book Brings Its Own History To The Reader.

It Is In The Translation That The Innocence Lost After The First Reading Is Restored Under Another Guise, Since The Reader Is Once Again Faced With A New Text And Its Attendant Mystery. That Is The Inescapable Paradox Of Translation, And Also Its Wealth.