Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.

You think you‘re the painter, but you‘re the canvas.

You‘re both the fire and the water that extinguishes it. You‘re the narrator, the protagonist, and the sidekick. You‘re the storyteller and the story told. You are somebody‘s something, but you are also your you.