Why am I here? In the past couple of years, with my ups and downs in this whole book blogging thing, I’ve wondered that, and I always come back to this: How can I not do this? This recording of reactions and critiques and rate-of-universe-shatter is the second half of the equation. Like people who press themselves on our hearts, a book that changes something in us cannot be returned to the library or donated to Goodwill. That book that burrows itself down into the nails and underneath the eyelids demands to be reconciled with everything else we know about ourselves. I read for forgiveness, for understanding myself and others, for seeing behind the curtain, that fourth wall afforded us by houses, cars, headphones. It is my way of meeting the 100 people I might never have met.
So I have a soft spot for book lovers, for my company lying prostrate at the altar of language. One of my favorite bloggers has written her very own ode to words, and because I fear I can’t say it any better than this, I will just pass it on.