Readers are bullied in schoolyards and in locker-rooms as much as in government offices and prisons.

Maybe this is why we read, and why in moments of darkness we return to books: to find words for what we already know.

All these are readers, and their gestures, their craft, the pleasure, the responsibility and the power they derive from reading, are common with mine. I am not alone.

The books on my shelves do not know me until I open them, yet I am certain that they address me — me and every other reader — by name; they await our comments and opinions. I am presumed in Plato as I am presumed in every book, even in those I’ll never read.

And it is no true wisdom that you offer your disciples, but only its semblance, for by telling them of many things without teaching them anything, you will make them seem to know much, while for the most part they will know nothing. And as men filled not with wisdom but with the conceit of wisdom, they will be a burden to their fellow-men.

All reading is interpretation, every reading reveals and is dependent on the circumstances of its reader.

As readers, we are seldom interested in the fine sentiments of a lesson learnt; we seldom care about the good manners of morals. Repentance puts an end to conversation; forgiveness becomes the stuff of moralistic tracts. Revenge - bloodthirsty, justice-hungry revenge - is the very essence of romance, lying at the heart of much of the best fiction.

Readers, censors know, are defined by the books they read.

If every library is in some sense a reflection of its readers, it is also an image of that which we are not, and cannot be.