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A ler, na Yale Review of Books, um artigo de Toby Merrill.

«One place many of us bring into the books we read is our own bed. My bed has snuck into the background of much of my reading. There are books that live next to my bed that could not possibly exist anywhere else. My dad's copies of the entire Winnie the Pooh series hold court next to Mark Strand's Reasons for Moving and a few old journals. On Thanksgiving and spring breaks, favorite seminar reading and back issues of unread magazines keep company with unused stationery and a stash of pens. The drawers beneath hold years of letters. My bed is their safety net - it will not change their meaning against my will. This innermost chamber of reading is no place for textbooks or boring novels. Most of us are exceedingly careful about what we let into our beds (only soft sheets, clean pets, crumbless foods, loved ones). Why should books be any exception? The books I bring to bed must be all of these things: nice, clean, crumbless, and loved. They must be new enough to provide fresh pleasure and old enough to be familiar, comfortable. They must be loud enough to keep me awake and quiet enough not to wake the neighbors. They must be good companions for a bedtime journey.»

[Paulo Ferreira]