What is the hold of literature on a reader's imagination, on my imagination? I remember many hours spent with books in a kind of romantic entanglement, and heartful obsession, and joyful reverie. I certainly remember being lost with words, lost in enthusiastic abandonment. I loved the sounds of words, and the images they conjured, and the possibilities for knowing and becoming that always seemed resident in words if I just remained faithful to the promise of visions. My love for reading was not founded on an eagerness for entertainment or escape. Instead, my commitment to books was rooted in a conviction that was passionately political. Books breathed. Books spoke. Books inspired. Above all, books held a magical power, the possibilities of grammar to cast spells and transform the world.