Books aren’t something one approves or disapproves of; they are to be understood, interpreted, learned from, shocked by, argued with and enjoyed. Moreover, the evolution of literature and the other arts, their constant renewal over the centuries, has always been fueled by what is now censoriously labeled “cultural appropriation” but which is more properly described as “influence,” “inspiration” or “homage.” Poets, painters, novelists and other artists all borrow, distort and transform. That’s their job; that’s what they do.

I regret that the ideal of a home or family library has pretty much vanished along with door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen and sets of the “Great Books of the Western World.”

I regularly copy favorite sentences and passages from my reading into a small notebook I’ve kept since I was in my early 20s.

Except for beautifully printed or rarely found books, I read almost everything with a pencil in my hand. I mark favorite passages, scribble notes in margins, sometimes even make shopping lists on the end papers.