There are no wrong books. What's wrong is the fear of them.
Writing is a mode of being. If I write I live.
How can we be strangers if we both believe in God?
The past exudes legend: one can't make pure clay of time's mud.
Prufrock had measured out his life with measuring spoons; Dubin, in books resurrecting the lives of others.
... it's possible to let love fly by like a cloud in a windy sky if one is too timid, or perhaps unable to believe he is entitled to good fortune.