Emily Dickinson’s tribute to books

Unto my Books—so good to turn—

Far ends of tired Days—

It half endears the Abstinence—

And Pain—is missed—in praise—

As Flavors—cheer Retarded Guests

With Banquettings to be—

So Spices—stimulate the time

Till my small Library—

It may be Wilderness—without—

Far feet of failing Men—

But Holiday—excludes the night—

And it is Bells—within—

I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf—

Their Countenances Kid

Enamor—in Prospective—

And satisfy—obtained—

The Debt We Owe to Authors

Those of us who have been true readers all our life seldom fully realize the enormous extension of our being which we owe to authors. We realize it best when we talk with an unliterary friend. He may be full of goodness and good sense but he inhabits a tiny world. In it, we would be suffocated. The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough.

C.S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism