I understood right from the start that every set of library doors were the sort of magic portals that lead to other lands. My God, right within reach there were dinosaurs and planets and presidents and girl detectives!
It's human nature to want to help and soothe and save with your love, but it's also arrogant.
In a lifetime, the recipe always needs amending - more of this, a little less of that, what to do now that the cake has fallen.
Writers are troubled about finding time to write and writer's block and publicizing books that aren't books yet. They agonize over how to write and what to write and what not to write.
Usually, I set one foot in a library and I feel my own internal volume lower. A library is a physical equivalent of a sigh. Itβs the silence, sure, but itβs also the certainty of all those books, the way they stand side by side with their still, calm conviction. Itβs the reassurance of knowledge in the face of confusion.
We are thickly layered, page lying upon page, behind simple covers. And love - it is not the book itself, but the binding.
