If justice takes place, there may be hope, even in the face of a seemingly capricious divinity.

At night, here in the library, the ghosts have voices.

A library is an ever-growing entity; it multiples seemingly unaided, it reproduces itself by purchase, theft, borrowings, gifts, by suggesting gaps through association, by demanding completion of sorts.

The shelves of books we haven't written, like those of books we haven't read, stretches out into the darkness of the universal library's farthest space. We are always at the beginning of the beginning of the letter A.

Ultimately, the number of books always exceeds the space they are granted.

From fire, water, the passage of time, neglectful readers, and the hand of the censor, each of my books has escaped to tell me its story.

Deserted libraries hold the shades of writers who worked within, and are haunted by their absence.