For all those beaten, for the broken heads, The fosterless, the simple, the oppressed, The ghosts in the burning city of our time… - Stephen Vincent Benét

The time is — time. The place is anywhere. The voices speak to you across the air To say that once again a child is born. A child is born.

I shall not rest quiet in Montparnasse. I shall not lie easy at Winchelsea. You may bury my body in Sussex grass, You may bury my tongue at Champmédy. I shall not be there. I shall rise and pass. Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

Books are not men and yet they are alive, they are man's memory and his aspiration, the link between his present and his past, the tools he builds with.