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I lived within the covers of books and those books were more real to me than any other thing in my life.
Perhaps only a truly discontented child can become as seduced by books as I was. Perhaps restlessness is a necessary corollary of devoted literacy.
In books I have traveled, not only to other worlds, but into my own. I learned who I was and who I wanted to be, what I might aspire to, and what I might dare to dream about my world and myself.
“Reading makes immigrants of us all,” she wrote years later. “It takes us away from home, but, most important, it finds homes for us everywhere.”
I was treated as though something was wrong with me because I wanted to read all the time.”
read because I loved it more than any other activity on earth.
But reading saved me from despair,
Of those of us who comprise the real clan of the book, who read not to judge the reading of others but to take the measure of ourselves.
“Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing,” says Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird.
The president could quote Mark Twain because he had read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and the postman could understand the reference because he had read it, too.
books became the greatest purveyors of truth, and the truth shall make you free.
Me. Me. Me. I am not alone. I am surrounded by words that tell me who I am, why I feel what I feel.
reading continues to provide an escape from a crowded house into an imaginary room of one’s own.
As for casual acquaintances, I do not care if they read it or not. This is my book.
