I donβt have many friends, not the living, breathing sort at any rate. And I donβt mean that in a sad and lonely way; Iβm just not the type of person who accumulates friends or enjoys crowds. Iβm good with words, but not spoken kind; Iβve often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper. And I suppose, in a sense, thatβs what I do, for Iβve hundreds of the other sort, the friends contained within bindings, pages after glorious pages of ink, stories that unfold the same way every time but never lose their joy, that take me by the hand and lead me through doorways into worlds of great terror and rapturous delight. Exciting, worthy, reliable companions - full of wise counsel, some of them - but sadly ill-equipped to offer the use of a spare bedroom for a month or two.