One Reads For Pleasure...it Is Not A

Cloisters, Ancient Libraries ... I Was Confusing Learning With The Smell Of Cold Stone.

Books Are Not About Passing Time. They're About Other Lives. Other Worlds. Far From Wanting Time To Pass, One Just Wishes One Had More Of It. If One Wanted To Pass The Time One Could Go To New Zealand.

Kafka Could Never Have Written As He Did Had He Lived In A House. His Writing Is That Of Someone Whose Whole Life Was Spent In Apartments, With Lifts, Stairwells, Muffled Voices Behind Closed Doors, And Sounds Through Walls. Put Him In A Nice Detached Villa And He'd Never Have Written A Word.

I'm Not "happy" But I'm Not Unhappy About It.

Authors, She Soon Decided, Were Probably Best Met Within The Pages Of Their Novels, And Were As Much Creatures Of The Reader's Imagination As The Characters In Their Books. Nor Did They Seem To Think One Had Done Them A Kindness By Reading Their Writings. Rather They Had Done One The Kindness By Writing Them.