My friend’s husband was an artist. I love his work, he painted portraits of women and still lifes. I remember how he’d go up to the bookshelves and rap on the spines: “We have to burn them all! Burn them to hell! I don’t believe in books anymore! We thought that good would triumph over evil—nothing of the kind! We’d argue about Dostoevsky…Yes, those are the characters who are always with us! Walking among us. They’re right here!”
