excessive bookshelf

One summer morning at sunrise a long time ago
I met a little girl with a book under her arm.
I asked her why she was out so early and
she answered that there were too many books and
far too little time. And there she was absolutely right.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

Stories are, in one way or another, mirrors. We use them to explain to ourselves how the world works or how it doesn’t work. Like mirrors, stories prepare us for the day to come. They distract us from the things in the darkness.

It’s all about changing what’s handed to you,
about poking around a little,
lifting the corners,
seeing what’s underneath,
poking that.
Sometimes things work out,
sometime they don’t,
but at least you’re exploring.
And life is always more interesting that way.

Happiness is excitement that has found a settling down place, but there is always a little corner that keeps flapping around.

Libraries really are wonderful. They’re better than bookshops, even. I mean bookshops make a profit on selling you books, but libraries just sit there lending you books quietly out of the goodness of their hearts.