Pen-bereavement Is A Serious Matter.

I Can Think Of Few Better Ways To Introduce A Child To Books Than To Let Her Stack Them, Upend Them, Rearrange Them, And Get Her Fingerprints All Over Them.

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.

My Daughter Is Seven, And Some Of The Other Second-grade Parents Complain That Their Children Don't Read For Pleasure. When I Visit Their Homes, The Children's Rooms Are Crammed With Expensive Books, But The Parent's Rooms Are Empty. Those Children Do Not See Their Parents Reading, As I Did Every Day Of My Childhood. By Contrast, When I Walk Into An Apartment With Books On The Shelves, Books On The Bedside Tables, Books On The Floor, And Books On The Toilet Tank, Then I Know What I Would See If I Opened The Door That Says 'private--grownups Keep Out': A Child Sprawled On The Bed, Reading.

If The Soul Cannot Find Its Jacket. It Is Condemned To An Eternity Of Wandering--naked And Alone

My Brother And I Were Able To Fantasize Far More Extravagantly About Our Parents' Tastes And Desires, Their Aspirations And Their Vices, By Scanning Their Bookcases Than By Snooping In Their Closest. Their Selves Were On Their Shelves.