We Seem To Live A Culture That

Our Books Will Bear Witness For Or Against Us, Our Books Reflect Who We Are And Who We Have Been, Our Books Hold The Share Of Pages Granted To Us From The Book Of Life. By The Books We Call Ours We Will Be Judged

Old Or New, The Only Sign I Always Try To Rid My Books Of (usually With Little Success) Is The Price-sticker That Malignant Booksellers Attach To The Backs. These Evil White Scabs Rip Off With Difficulty, Leaving Leprous Wounds And Traces Of Slime To Which Adhere The Dust And Fluff Of Ages, Making Me Wish For A Special Gummy Hell To Which The Inventor Of These Stickers Would Be Condemned.

The Listeners Who Buy Books After A Reading Multiply That Reading; The Author Who Realizes That He Or She May Be Writing On A Blank Page But Is At Least Not Speaking To A Blank Wall May Be Encouraged By The Experience, And Write More.

Most Readers, Then And Now, Have At Some Time Experienced The Humiliation Of Being Told That Their Occupation Is Reprehensible.

From Fire, Water, The Passage Of Time, Neglectful Readers, And The Hand Of The Censor, Each Of My Books Has Escaped To Tell Me Its Story.