Dear Book Lover,

The love of a novel is the love of craft. Not plain craft as sticks and glue, nor witchcraft with toil and brew. It is the craft of the mind. The deep seated paranoia of character that we all experience transferred to the page--that maybe we're not really in control and that maybe there's more than one person inside of us. Books are a harsh thing, because they are a lie. Books are a clueless thing, because there is nowhere for them to go. Nowhere physical anyways. And even if a story were to be taken word for word to the stage of reality, it would not be the same because the thought process, now driven by the book, would change the element of character of those involved.