I'm not trying to give any definite answer. What I'm trying to prove is that we have enough gaps, enough discrepancies, enough simple falsifications to conclude that probably this history was an invention of a later time.
The telling of stories creates the real world.
Old or new, the only sign I always try to rid my books of (usually with little success) is the price-sticker that malignant booksellers attach to the backs. These evil white scabs rip off with difficulty, leaving leprous wounds and traces of slime to which adhere the dust and fluff of ages, making me wish for a special gummy hell to which the inventor of these stickers would be condemned.
The starting point is a question.
In any of my pages in any of my books may life a perfect account of my secret experience of the world.
Old books that we have known but not possessed cross our path and invite themselves over. New books try to seduce us daily with tempting titles and tantalizing covers.
reading is at the beginning of the social contract
It's kind of like, I love doing tons of different things. The only thing I hate is not being in ensembles.
Comedies are doing well because I think people want to laugh and not think about everything for a little bit.
Confidence has brought them out into the light, but they seem to have forgotten - light's no good for creatures of the night.
As my mind can conceive of more good, the barriers and blocks dissolve. My life becomes full of little miracles popping up out of the blue.