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Books, books, books!
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in read more
Books, books, books!
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in my father's name;
Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read!
My books!
At last, because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.
Once we have learned to read, meaning of words can somehow register without consciousness.
Once we have learned to read, meaning of words can somehow register without consciousness.
Literary imagination is an aesthetic object offered by a writer to a lover of books.
Literary imagination is an aesthetic object offered by a writer to a lover of books.
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but thee who destroys a goode booke, kills reason it read more
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but thee who destroys a goode booke, kills reason it selfe.
A novel is never anything, but a philosophy put into images.
A novel is never anything, but a philosophy put into images.
Books are humanity in print.
Books are humanity in print.
A real book is not one that we read, but one that reads us.
A real book is not one that we read, but one that reads us.
I am not a speed reader. I am a speed understander.
I am not a speed reader. I am a speed understander.
