“I would open a book. And as in one of those black-and-white movies that begin with the image of some dusty old-fashioned book, which a mysterious hand opens slowly, with intensely crisp papery sounds, to a page of words so large and thick that they are not real words but cunning imitations, and a mysterious voice that is not a real voice but a British voice begins to read, and slowly, softly, you sink through the pages into a sudden street where men in tall hats and buy side-whiskers stride briskly along: so I too sank through soft pages, down, deep down, into other streets and universes.” —Steven Millhauser, Portrait of a Romantic

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