I don't know what to say about it, except that it moved me in a way one hopes to be moved each time he begins a book.

Empty teacups gathered around her and dictionary pages fell at her feet.

That's what I do. Watch movies and read. Sometimes I even pretend to write, but I'm not fooling anyone. Oh, and I go to the mailbox.

We lose ourselves in what we read, only to return to ourselves, transformed and part of a more expansive world.

Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it's something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about.

I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.