You Walk For Days Among Trees And

Don't Ask Where The Rest Of This Book Is!" It Is A Shrill Cry That Comes From An Undefined Spot Among The Shelves. "all Books Continue In The Beyond.

Novels As Dull As Dishwater, With The Grease Of Random Sentiments Floating On Top.

There Is Nothing For It But For All Of Us To Invent Our Own Ideal Libraries Of Classics. I Would Say That Such A Library Ought To Be Composed Half Of Books We Have Read And That Have Really Counted For Us, And Half Of Books We Propose To Read And Presume Will Come To Count—leaving A Section Of Empty Shelves For Surprises And Occasional Discoveries

You Have With You The Book You Were Reading In The Cafe, Which You Are Eager To Continue, So That You Can Then Hand It On To Her, To Communicate Again With Her Through The Channel Dug By Others' Words, Which, As They Are Uttered By An Alien Voice, By The Voice Of That Silent Nobody Made Of Ink And Typographical Spacing, Can Become Yours And Hers, A Language, A Code Between The Two Of You, A Means To Exchange Signals And Recognize Each Other.

Sometimes One Who Thinks Himself Incomplete Is Merely Young.