(When I was a kid, we spent summers without phone, tv, friends, isolated in a cottage perched at the edge of the Maine coast. My dad gave us each a dollar bill every Monday and took us to the Book Barn, a labyrinthine and musty old place filed with books–ten books a buck–and we spent hours making our choices. I almost always made my selections according to the names, ink, inscriptions on the flyleaf or inside cover. Sometimes the books were silly, sometimes glorious, but I always felt connected to someone who had loved this book enough to give it to someone, to write a note in it–or to someone who so loved the flow of a signature under his/her pen. I daydreamed about these people, and about the people I imagined had worn the glorious clothes and spectacles I also collected at flea markets and rummage sales.)