A book is a man at his best. Who knows what Plato was like in the flesh? Maybe he suffered from halitosis. Perhaps he was unbearably domineering. But in his books I have him at my beck and call, for instruction, uplift, or just to keep the pre-Socratics from improperly fraternizing with Aristotle.
Each book on my shelves is a window, a window opening out upon a world. From Aristotle to Zubiri, window after window, world upon world . . .