I Wanted To Live Among Books.

Most Readers, Then And Now, Have At Some Time Experienced The Humiliation Of Being Told That Their Occupation Is Reprehensible.

Something About The Possession Of A Book - An Object That Can Contain Infinite Fables, Words Of Wisdom, Chronicles Of Times Gone By, Humorous Anecdotes And Divine Revelation - Endows The Reader With The Power Of Creating A Story, And The Listener With A Sense Of Being Present At The Moment Of Creation.

The World That Is A Book Is Devoured Bya Reader Who Is A Letter In The World's Text; Thus A Circular Metaphor Is Created For The Endlessness Of Reading; We Are What We Read.

Reading In Bed Is A Self-centered Act, Immobile, Free From Ordinary Social Conventions, Invisible To The World, And One That, Because It Takes Place Between The Sheets, In The Realm Of Lust And Sinful Idleness, Has Something Of The Thrill Of Things Forbidden.

I Never Talked To Anyone About My Reading; The Need To Share Came Afterwords.