A Philosophy Professor At My College, Whose

In My View, Nineteen Pounds Of Old Books Are At Least Nineteen Times As Delicious As One Pound Of Fresh Caviar.

Something Amazing Happens When The Rest Of The World Is Sleeping. I Am Glued To My Chair. I Forget That I Ever Wanted To Do Anything But Write. The Crowded City, The Crowded Apartment, And The Crowded Calendar Suddenly Seem Spacious. Three Or Four Hours Pass In A Moment; I Have No Idea What Time It Is, Because I Never Check The Clock. If I Chose To Listen, I Could Hear The Swish Of Taxis Bound For Downtown Bars Or The Soft Saxophone Riffs That Drift From A Neighbor's Window, But Nothing Gets Through. I Am Suspended In A Sensory Deprivation Tank, And The Very Lack Of Sensation Is Delicious.

It Has Long Been My Belief That Everyone's Library Contains An Odd Shelf. On This Shelf Rests A Small, Mysterious Completely Unrelated To The Rest Of The Library, Yet Which, Upon Closer Inspection, Reveals A Good Deal About Its Owner.

You Can Miss A Lot By Sticking To The Point.

I, On The Other Hand, Believe That Books, Maps, Scissors, And Scotch Tape Dispensers Are All Unreliable Vagrants, Likely To Take Off For Parts Unknown Unless Strictly Confined To Quarters.