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My Books Hold Between Their Covers Every Story I've Ever Known And Still Remember, Or Have Now Forgotten, Or May One Day Read; They Fill The Space Around Me With Ancient And New Voices.

It Hardly Matters Why A Library Is Destroyed: Every Banning, Curtailment, Shredding, Plunder Or Loot Gives Rise (at Least As A Ghostly Presence) To A Louder, Clearer, More Durable Library Of The Banned, Looted, Plundered, Shredded Or Curtailed.

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.

If The Book Is Second-hand, I Leave All Its Markings Intact, The Spoor Of Previous Readers, Fellow-travellers Who Have Recorded Their Passage By Means Of Scribbled Comments, A Name On The Fly-leaf, A Bus Ticket To Mark A Certain Page.

Digestion Of Words As Well; I Often Read Aloud To Myself In My Writing Corner In The Library, Where No One Can Hear Me, For The Sake Of Better Savouring The Text, So As To Make It All The More Mine.