Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another's skin, another's voice, another's soul.

That is the mystery: Reading Henry James can yield prose that is contrary to James, yet inspired by him. Who can understand this?

I read books. Avidly, ardently! As if my life depended upon it.

I am more or less reading all the time.

I am always reading or thinking about reading.