You are my hero. To quote Longfellow, “The love of learning, the sequestered nook, and all the sweet serenity of books.” The Japanese have a word (which I read once but no longer remember) for the “sickness” of buying or otherwise acquiring books which stack up in one’s residence, unread, and become a psychological burden of guilt. This is not the case with me. I am about to turn 70 years old, with a collection of books carefully saved through moves and storms, and the fact that they may, some of them, remain unread is my gold mine, just waiting for me to investigate. A reason to live and continue to cogitate. Some are hundreds of years old, found languishing in forgotten book stores, and some are new. But all are worlds to explore, now that I am too crippled and poor and old to do that outside of my house. As a very lonely, only child, books were my best friends, and they remain so. I can only hope that the books I hope to write (along with my reams of poetry written between 1950 and the present) will help some other child to see beyond the horrible situation in which they are forced to remain until they are grown. And that the books on my shelves, as yet unread, will save me from losing all hope, and keep me traveling on the path to beauty and salvation, even though I seem to be trapped in my chair, and to my walking stick.