Since the age of five I had been one of those people who was an indefatigable reader, more inclined to go off by myself with a book than do any of the dozens of things that children usually do to amuse themselves. I never aged out of it.

How is it that, a full two centuries after Jane Austen finished her manuscript, we come to the world of Pride and Prejudice and find ourselves transcending customs, strictures, time, mores, to arrive at a place that educates, amuses, and enthralls us? It is a miracle. We read in bed because reading is halfway between life and dreaming, our own consciousness in someone else's mind.

In books I have traveled, not only to other worlds, but into my own.

Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.

I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves.

Your children make it impossible to regret your past. They're its finest fruits. Sometimes the only ones.