I Wanted To Live Among Books.

It Is In The Translation That The Innocence Lost After The First Reading Is Restored Under Another Guise, Since The Reader Is Once Again Faced With A New Text And Its Attendant Mystery. That Is The Inescapable Paradox Of Translation, And Also Its Wealth.

I Don't Remember Ever Feeling Lonely; In Fact, On The Rare Occasions When I Met Other Children I Found Their Games And Their Talk Far Less Interesting Than The Adventures And Dialogues I Read In My Books.

I Enjoyed Learning The Poems, But I Didn't Understand Of What Use They Might Possibly Be. ‘they'll Keep You Company On The Day You Have No Books To Read,' My Teacher Said.

In No Way Am I Demeaning Writing Or Any Other Form Of Art Because It's Popular. What I'm Saying Is That Anything Fed Into The Industrial Machinery To Comply With Rules Of Size And Length And Shelf-life Has A Hard Time Surviving As Art.

A Writer Stops Writing The Moment He Or She Puts The Last Full Stop To Their Text, And At That Point The Book Is In Limbo And Doesn't Come To Life Until The Reader Picks It Up And The Reader Flips The Pages.