In the dark, with the windows lit and the rows of books glittering, the library is a closed space, a universe of self-serving rules that pretend to replace or translate those of the shapeless universe beyond.

In the light, we read the inventions of others; in the darkness we invent our own stories.

We can imagine the books we'd like to read, even if they have not yet been written, and we can imagine libraries full of books we would like to possess, even if they are well beyond our reacher, because we enjoy dreaming up a library that reflects every one of our interests and every one of our foibles--a library that, in its variety and complexity, fully reflects the reader we are.

I like to imagine that, on the day after my last, my library and I will crumble together, so that even when I am no more I'll still be with my books.

During the day, the library is a realm of order.

In any of my pages in any of my books may life a perfect account of my secret experience of the world.

If every library is in some sense a reflection of its readers, it is also an image of that which we are not, and cannot be.