Never before had I known the sudden quiver of understanding that travels from word to brain to heart, the way a new language can move, coil, swim into life under the eyes, the almost savage leap of comprehension, the instantaneous, joyful release of meaning, the way the words shed their printed bodies in a flash of heat and light.

The very worst impulses of humankind can survive generations, centuries, even millennia. And the best of our individual efforts can die with us at the end of a single lifetime.

For the first time, I had been struck by the excitement of the traveler who looks history in her subtle face.

I was filled with angst in college, that I struggled with the question of my future, the meaning of my life - spoiled sheltered rich girl collides with great books and is devastated by her own banality.

I've noticed Dracula was often as practical a fellow as he was a nasty one.

For me, Dracula has always been associated with travel and beautiful historical places.

And how could anyone consent to give up the smell of open books, old or new?