When I stayed in Lynn, Massachusetts, in my late teenagers, I located verse and literature by mishap when at nineteen I drove a vacant dump truck to my girlfriend’s home in nearby Swampscott, at lunch time so I might greet and swipe a kiss. As I walked up the veranda stairs, the guy next door, late 20 s, very early 30 s, began placing boxes and boxes of books on the grass of his house. I asked if he was relocating. He said, kind of, I’m heading for Wisconsin to research for my doctorate in English literature. That’s excellent, I said, have a safe journey, and started to avert. Then blessing struck. If you want any kind of, he claimed, you can have them. I’m placing them out for the garbage collection tomorrow. I quit. My heart swelled with expectancy. I have actually experienced a great deal of good luck in my life, yet this was nearly outrageous. Quick background: I had always liked books in school and commonly went to the collection, especially considering that we never had any in my home with the exception of a periodic Viewers’s Digest “compressed” book that my papa earned from his night-time task as a bartender and bookie. Clients left them in the cubicles with the day’s newspapers. I would have delighted in a shelf of books but it never ever occurred to my parents or siblings or me to get them; not something most working-class households in my community did or in the majority of instances might manage versus food and lease and the bare requirements. Also, I had constantly intended to be well-read, regardless of finishing secondary school with a D- average, most likely leaving had I not been enabled to graduate. Every one of this is to say, guides I was all of a sudden provided were mana I grabbed every single box, placed them in the back of the vehicle, bid farewell to the person and my sweetheart, and drove back to the building website where I filled them into my flashy 1955 Mercury Monterey. There were about 250 books in overall. I came to be taken in by their visibility in my little bed room. I review at the very least 100 of them over the following year. I still have them done in my New York City apartment or condo. Commonly, as I pass them by, I touch their spines in honor of what they represent. I can feel them breathe. Just recently, as I paid one more passing go to, I was advised of what the excellent Irish poet W.B. Yeats is declared to have actually stated, yet no one has actually been able to confirm if he did or when or to whom he was referring, “There are no strangers here; only close friends you haven’t yet fulfilled.” That day, at that time, these books became my valuable long-lasting friends– silent, unassuming, constantly available, constantly forgiving me after extended periods of forget, constantly making me feel better with their words. I do not count on heaven, but if ever there was one and I was asked what it must be like, I would certainly claim numerous wonderful middle ages castles loaded with substantial chambers of carved oak and mahogany that held all the books ever before created. And if I were allowed to live there, that I would certainly always have perfect vision and a comfortable cot and a coffee pot nearby.