I picked up this bag a few years ago on a trip to DC at one of my favorite bookstores in the world. I bought a copy of poems by Rumi, which I've kept in the bag ever since. I also have a copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being on the back seat of my car, which makes me feel good to look at every time I open the rear door and peer down at it. I have books all over my house — some I've read and others I mean to. Sometimes I become aware of the sheer volume of words I intend to read and wonder if I'll ever have time to conquer this mountain of literature. There's a famous Twilight Zone episode about a librarian who craves the time and solitude to read and gets his wish when the bomb drops. I related to that character when I saw it, and have ever since. The dream of the proverbial cabin in the woods filled with books is a peculiar kid of utopia for loners but the reality is that sometimes our minds move too quickly for books. Especially in this age. On sleepy afternoons I plan to read then fall into a YouTube-shaped hole and lament the time and my mind for deceiving me. In public now, hardly anyone seems to have books cracked open. When I see a fellow book reader I feel instant affinity for them and wonder, "what book is that?". As I type this, a woman with glasses and a bright red top has sat down and opened a book. The look on her face is placid. Content, That day I walked into the DC bookstore, I was feeling truly lost. Alone in a strange city. A bit self-conscious as the sun was setting and I noticed groups of friends gathering to eat and drink together. I entered the place like a man enters a church. The staff was friendly and eager to talk about books and authors and ideas that are immortal. I was home.