Reading Is The Occupation Of The Insomniac

I Can Understand That There Are Those Who Can Think And Imagine The World Without Words, But I Think That Once You Find The Words That Name Your Experience, Then Suddenly That Experience Becomes Grounded, And You Can Use It And You Can Try To Understand It.

I Know My Time Will Come Soon Enough, But I Will Not Dwell On It. What Is The Purpose? We Might As Well Dwell On The Work Of Our Teeth Or On The Mechanics Of Our Walk. It Is There, It Will Always Be There, And I Don't Intend To Spend My Glorious Hours Looking Over My Shoulder To See Death's Icy Face.

Nothing Moves Except My Eyes And My Hand Occasionally Turning A Page, And Yet Something Not Exactly Defined By The Word "text" Unfurls, Progresses, Grows And Takes Root As I Read. But How Does This Process Take Place?

The Shelves Of Books We Haven't Written, Like Those Of Books We Haven't Read, Stretches Out Into The Darkness Of The Universal Library's Farthest Space. We Are Always At The Beginning Of The Beginning Of The Letter A.

Libraries, Whether My Own Or Shared With A Greater Reading Public, Have Always Seemed To Me Pleasantly Mad Places, And For As Long As I Can Remember I've Been Seduced By Their Labyrinthine Logic, Which Suggests That Reason (if Not Art) Rules Over A Cacophonous Arrangement Of Books.