I SEE THAT once again I’ve strayed off from writing to reading and the seeking out of books to read. This might cause some readers to grow impatient: what, after all, does my attraction to certain binding styles have to do with writing—and writing, more or less, is what this book is supposed to be about. They have everything to do with my writing, but perhaps the seepage is aquifer-like: sponge-like the reading is slowly absorbed by the writing. Seeing my books reminds me that, in a modest way at least, I’m part of literature and the whole complicated cultural enterprise that is literature. I have tried to write books that belong with the books I have gathered and read. The process is far from simple. My thousands of books are mainly the work of minor writers such as myself. Minor writers provide the stitchery of literature. Besides, major writers often find themselves writing minor books. Major writers aren’t major all the time, and minor writers occasionally write better than they normally do, sometimes producing a major book. The commonwealth of literature is complex, but a sense of belonging to it is an important feeling for a writer to have and to keep. Sitting with the immortals does not make one an immortal, but the knowledge that they’re around you on their shelves does contribute something to one’s sense of what one ought to try for. An attitude of respect for all the sheer work that’s been done since scribes first began to scratch on clay tablets is a good thing to cultivate.