Nobody listens anymore. I can’t talk to the walls because they’re yelling at me, I can’t talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough it’ll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.
Even books, word-things that should be judged by their content, fascinate me as objects. I confess I have many books in my library that I have never read nor had the intention of reading. I want them because their sheer presence represents a yearning, a mood, a love, and yes, an act of self-preservation. When my eyes scan my library, the typefaces of the titles, the textures of the covers, and their imagined weight give me a moment very like the pleasure of reading.