Reality Deals In Specifics Under The Guise

I Remember, As A Child, The Confusion Of Not Knowing What This Place Was Where I Was Supposed To Spend The Night: It's A Disquieting Experience For A Child. And What I Would Do Was Quickly Unpack My Books And Go Back To A Book I Knew Well And Make Sure The Same Text And The Same Illustrations Were There.

At One Magical Instant In Your Early Childhood, The Page Of A Book—that String Of Confused, Alien Ciphers—shivered Into Meaning. Words Spoke To You, Gave Up Their Secrets; At That Moment, Whole Universes Opened. You Became, Irrevocably, A Reader.

All These Are Readers, And Their Gestures, Their Craft, The Pleasure, The Responsibility And The Power They Derive From Reading, Are Common With Mine. I Am Not Alone.

Maybe This Is Why We Read, And Why In Moments Of Darkness We Return To Books: To Find Words For What We Already Know.

Evil Requires No Reason.