I've committed to nothing...and that's just suicide...by tiny, tiny increments.

Surely we all occasionally buy books because of a daydream we're having - a little fantasy about the people we might turn into one day, when our lives are different, quieter, more introspective, and when all the urgent reading, whatever that might be, has been done. We never arrive at that point, needless to say.

It's a mystery of human chemistry and I don't understand it, some people, as far as their senses are concerned, just feel like home.

We can't be as good as we'd want to, so the question then becomes, how do we cope with our own badness?

So now what? What happens when words fail us?

Women who disapprove of men - and there's plenty to disapprove of - should remember how we started out, and how far we had to travel.

Being a reader is sort of like being president, except reading involves fewer state dinners, usually. You have this agenda you want to get through, but you get distracted by life events, e.g., books arriving in the mail/World War III, and you are temporarily deflected from your chosen path.