“Some books leave us free and some books make us free.”
              --Ralph Waldo Emerson
Birds fly down to some saints (Assisi).
Beasts run up to some legendary characters (Orpheus).
Pigeons cling to the old men in St. Mark’s Square in Venice.
A lion attached itself to Androcles.
Books cling to me.
They fly down to me, run up to me, attach themselves to me. I have loved them for so many years: large and small ones, thick and thin ones, rare editions and cheap little booklets, in blaring dust jackets or thoughtfully enveloped in solid leather, as if in soft shoes.
They should not be too neat, like suits straight from the tailor’s, as cold as starched dickies. But they certainly should not be in greasy tatters. A book should lie in the hand like a well-adjusted tool.