Books for me are a home. Books don’t make a home – they are one, in the sense that as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and a different kind of space.
There is warmth there too – a hearth. I sit down with a book and I am warm. I know that from chilly nights on the doorstep.
I never had a key to the house in Walter Street, and so entry depended on being let in – or not. I don’t know why I am still so fond of doorsteps – it seems perverse, given that I spent so much time sitting on one, but the two parts of home that mattered to me, that I could least do without.. (are the) threshold and the hearth.
Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal