The odd thing about people who had many books was how they always wanted more.
...that once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone.
I wish you were small again, so I could hold you in my arms and comfort you. But you are grown, and you know that for some things there is no comfort.
Those who fear the imagination condemn it: something childish, they say, something monsterish, misbegotten. Not all of us dream awake. But those of us who do have no choice.
