I wouldn’t be the person I am, I wouldn’t understand what I understand, were it not for certain books. I’m thinking of the great question of nineteenth-century Russian literature: how should one live? A novel worth reading is an education of the heart. It enlarges your sense of human possibility, of what human nature is, of what happens in the world. It’s a creator of inwardness.
The Art of Fiction No. 143
Elsewhere she wrote:
“My library is an archive of longings.”
― Susan Sontag,
This has been true for me, too. Inwardness, desire and compassion—in all of their complexities—grew in me through reading.
Life was cushioned and dull until sheentered books' portals and lived other livesbesides her own—Dangerous dreaming timein parallel universes she halfrecognized in déjà vu dizziness—Naked characters dilemma-drivenat crossroads of life and death wrestlingwith logic and emotion.She listened whole-heartedly,that perplexed her in the everydaywith books shut and eyes on parents, pets,teachers and classmates—She closed and hugged her novelrecognizing in nature each life asa closed book with covers and inwarddimensions—She, too, designed a cover to protecther inner spaciousness, growing like a treeor iceberg greater beneath the surface.