When Literature Is Discovered, A Revelation Occurs:

We Can Roam The Bloated Stacks Of The Library Of Alexandria, Where All Imagination And Knowledge Are Assembled; We Can Recognize In Its Destruction The Warning That All We Gather Will Be Lost, But Also That Much Of It Can Be Collected Again; We Can Learn From Its Splendid Ambition That What Was One Man's Experience Can Become, Through The Alchemy Of Words, The Experience Of All, And How That Experience, Distilled Once Again Into Words, Can Serve Each Singular Reader For Some Secret, Singular Purpose.

In Our Day, Computer Technology And The Proliferation Of Books On Cd-rom Have Not Affected - As Far As Statistics Show - The Production And Sale Of Books In Their Old-fashioned Codex Form.

In The Dark, With The Windows Lit And The Rows Of Books Glittering, The Library Is A Closed Space, A Universe Of Self-serving Rules That Pretend To Replace Or Translate Those Of The Shapeless Universe Beyond.

Socrates Affirmed That Only That Which The Reader Already Knows Can Be Sparked By A Reading, And That The Knowledge Cannot Be Acquired Through Dead Letters.

As Readers, We Are Seldom Interested In The Fine Sentiments Of A Lesson Learnt; We Seldom Care About The Good Manners Of Morals. Repentance Puts An End To Conversation; Forgiveness Becomes The Stuff Of Moralistic Tracts. Revenge - Bloodthirsty, Justice-hungry Revenge - Is The Very Essence Of Romance, Lying At The Heart Of Much Of The Best Fiction.