A Society Can Exist - Many Do

Entering A Library, I Am Always Stuck By The Way In Which A Certain Vision Of The World Is Imposed Upon The Reader Through Its Categories And Its Order.

Without Leskov There Would Be No Bulgakov, No Chekhov, But Also No Garca Mrquez And Julio Cortzar. . . . Leskov Is The Essential Storyteller: He Does Not Portray Life, He Creates It In All Its Wonder And Terror And Magic.

I Like To Imagine That, On The Day After My Last, My Library And I Will Crumble Together, So That Even When I Am No More I'll Still Be With My Books.

A Library Is An Ever-growing Entity; It Multiples Seemingly Unaided, It Reproduces Itself By Purchase, Theft, Borrowings, Gifts, By Suggesting Gaps Through Association, By Demanding Completion Of Sorts.

Old Or New, The Only Sign I Always Try To Rid My Books Of (usually With Little Success) Is The Price-sticker That Malignant Booksellers Attach To The Backs. These Evil White Scabs Rip Off With Difficulty, Leaving Leprous Wounds And Traces Of Slime To Which Adhere The Dust And Fluff Of Ages, Making Me Wish For A Special Gummy Hell To Which The Inventor Of These Stickers Would Be Condemned.