Maybe you came to that book entirely alone and late in life and wished you had come to it younger, without so many of your scars maybe you still sometimes wonder about the kind of person you might have become if you’d found its pages back then. Maybe someone who loved you (a parent, a teacher, a librarian) gave you the book, with all the ceremony of an heirloom being passed down, extending a hand to save you because he or she, too, had once been saved in that way. Do you remember how old you were when you first read a book that had a character in it who looked and lived like you? Maybe the first book you read was like that and every book after it and you’ve never had to wonder about finding someone like yourself or the people who made you in books you’ve always been right there at the center, unquestioned.
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