'When I told my mother I was bored, she would start a pilgrimage around the house. She’d go from room to room, shelf to shelf, and come back with a pile of eight or 10 books. She’d sit on the edge of my bed and slide the pile apart, describing each book. Some of them I knew I would never read, either because I’d already tried them and found their first few pages dull, or because the lettering on the cover or the font inside was too small, suggesting a density of thought that I would find impenetrable. But in general every pile contained two or three books I could read, and boredom would be held off for another day or two.' (Introduction)
