Books were a thing of insurmountable beauty and power. Be they immense repositories of knowledge, transcendent works of philosophical quandaries, or transportational tales, they were a thing to be cherished and adored. But there were some that were a waste of the precious paper on which they were printed. Some that would have been better off as trees. And a common factor amongst those particular books, he found, was a lack of passion and a lack of purpose.
