I'm Perfectly Happy To Know The World

Nothing Is More Frightening Than A Fear You Cannot Name.

She Read And Read And Read, But She Was Stuffing Herself With The Letters On The Page Like An Unhappy Child Stuffing Itself With Chocolate. They Didn’t Taste Bad, But She Was Still Unhappy.

The Book She Had Been Reading Was Under Her Pillow, Pressing Its Cover Against Her Ear As If To Lure Her Back Into Its Printed Pages.

My Children Were All Made From Paper And Printer's Ink.

Weren’t All Books Ultimately Related? After All, The Same Letters Filled Them, Just Arranged In A Different Order. Which Meant That, In A Certain Way, Every Book Was Contained In Every Other!