Right now I’m enjoying Ray Bradbury’s Program. Among the essays I’ve read was Eudora Welty’s “One Writer’s Beginnings,” an essay about growing up a reader surrounded by books in a family of readers. Some of what she wrote reminded me of growing up without a TV with books as my primary form of entertainment.

One passage struck me and I copied it down in a notebook: “It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass.”

I love that image, of books as natural wonders, and unlike Eudora Welty, I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt that they aren’t.

The world of full of natural wonders and some just need an author to reveal them us.


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