She Had Awakened Something In Him That

When I Was 5 Years Old, My Mother Read Me 'gone With The Wind' At Night, Before I Went To Bed. I Remember Her Reading Almost All Year.

My Father Wouldn't Let Me Take Typing In Childhood.

Walking The Streets Of Charleston In The Late Afternoons Of August Was Like Walking Through Gauze Or Inhaling Damaged Silk.

... Silence (can) Be The Most Eloquent Form Of Lying.

Books Are Living Things And Their Task Lies In Their Vows Of Silence. You Touch Them As They Quiver With A Divine Pleasure. You Read Them And They Fall Asleep To Happy Dreams For The Next 10 Years. If You Do Them The Favor Of Understanding Them, Of Taking In Their Portions Of Grief And Wisdom, Then They Settle Down In Contented Residence In Your Heart.