Memories Are Not Shackles, Franklin,

The Thing I Think About Is That Once You've Done It, You Then Start To Think About What You're Going To Do Next. It's Much Easier To Follow Something That's Not Been As Successful As This.

To Begin With, It's True, She Read With Trepidation And Some Unease. The Sheer Endlessness Of Books Outfaced Her And She Had No Idea How To Go On; There Was No System To Her Reading, With One Book Leading To Another, And Often She Had Two Or Three On The Go At The Same Time.

Books Are Not About Passing Time. They're About Other Lives. Other Worlds. Far From Wanting Time To Pass, One Just Wishes One Had More Of It. If One Wanted To Pass The Time One Could Go To New Zealand.

The Appeal Of Reading, She Thought, Lay In Its Indifference: There Was Something Undeferring About Literature. Books Did Not Care Who Was Reading Them Or Whether One Read Them Or Not. All Readers Were Equal, Herself Included. Literature, She Thought, Is A Commonwealth; Letters A Republic.

Art Comes Out Of Art; It Begins With Imitation, Often In The Form Of Parody, And It's In The Process Of Imitating The Voice Of Others That One Comes To Learn The Sound Of One's Own.