“When I was only three years old, Mama found me on the floor with a book pulled tightly against my face, sobbing hard. When she asked me why on earth I was crying, I told her, ‘Because I can’t get in the book.’ Now, I could not read at that age. What had happened, really, is that my mother had read so many books to me, so vividly, so beautifully, that I expected to be able to pick up the book and plunge instantly into beautiful depths of the imagination, and was disappointed I could not. In later years, of course, I found exactly that kind of satisfaction in books, and I owe all that to Mama.” – 355
A life of books . . .