In Any Of My Pages

Existing Libraries, In Their Very Being, Seem To Question The Authority Of Those In Power.

Reality Deals In Specifics Under The Guise Of Generalities. Literature Does The Contrary.

At Different Times And In Different Places I Have Come To Expect Certain Books To Look A Certain Way, And, As In All Fashions, These Changing Features Fix A Precise Quality Onto A Book's Definition. I Judge A Book By Its Cover; I Judge A Book By Its Shape.

At Night, Here In The Library, The Ghosts Have Voices.

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.