I always rely on reason when I select works one can only understand with one’s feelings, but one day at the antiquarian bookshop I found myself in each and every book I opened. As always, I was only on the lookout for a word or two, those which seem to glow from below the horizon, but what a drama it’s become instead. Now the letters are towering around me, and at any moment the catastrophe can happen: that someone with a moistened finger turns the page.