Not Until I Came To Canada Did

It Hardly Matters Why A Library Is Destroyed: Every Banning, Curtailment, Shredding, Plunder Or Loot Gives Rise (at Least As A Ghostly Presence) To A Louder, Clearer, More Durable Library Of The Banned, Looted, Plundered, Shredded Or Curtailed.

As Readers, We Have Gone From Learning A Precious Craft Whose Secret Was Held By A Jealous Few, To Taking For Granted A Skin That Has Become Subordinate To Principles Of Mindless Financial Profit Or Mechanical Efficiency, A Skill For Which Governments Care Almost Nothing.

Old Books That We Have Known But Not Possessed Cross Our Path And Invite Themselves Over. New Books Try To Seduce Us Daily With Tempting Titles And Tantalizing Covers.

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.

Books May Not Change Our Suffering, Books May Not Protect Us From Evil, Books May Not Tell Us What Is Good Or What Is Beautiful, And They Will Certainly Not Shield Us From The Common Fate Of The Grave. But Books Grant Us Myriad Possibilities: The Possibility Of Change, The Possibility Of Illumination.