Unpacking Books Is A Revelatory Activity.

But At Night, When The Library Lamps Are Lit, The Outside World Disappears And Nothing But The Space Of Books Remains In Existence.

Entering A Library, I Am Always Stuck By The Way In Which A Certain Vision Of The World Is Imposed Upon The Reader Through Its Categories And Its Order.

In The Dark, With The Windows Lit And The Rows Of Books Glittering, The Library Is A Closed Space, A Universe Of Self-serving Rules That Pretend To Replace Or Translate Those Of The Shapeless Universe Beyond.

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.

The Stories That Unfold In The Space Of A Writer's Study, The Objects Chosen To Watch Over A Desk, The Books Selected To Sit On The Shelves, All Weave A Web Of Echoes And Reflections Of Meanings And Affections, That Lend A Visitor The Illusion That Something Of The Owner Of This Space Lives On Between These Walls, Even If The Owner Is No More.