My life began, and will likely end, as it always has: surrounded by books. They were everywhere in my grandfather's office; dusting them was forbidden except once a year, just before the new school year began in October. Even before I could read, I felt a reverence for these upright stones: whether they were straight or crooked, packed like bricks on the library shelves, or majestically spread out like a row of menhirs, I felt that the well-being of our family was tied to them.